Amy...

A small story of the goings on on the 5th August 2003.

When I originally wrote the Fringe diary, I mentioned meeting a girl on the way home and playing a song for her. I never quite got around to explaining the full extent of that meeting. However, given that I've now told the tale on stage a bunch of times, I may as well recount the tale for the online collection of memoirs that is my website.

To put it in context, I'd just performed a difficult, nay impossible, gig in a bar at Adam House on Chambers Street. This bar had a stage and they were trying to put comedy on that stage... but nobody had paid and nobody wanted to hear the comedy. At that stage, I needed the gigs and I had a go at MCing the gig - there was no way I could silence the crowd and the only act who turned up had no luck either. It's a shame that I didn't record the second part of the gig because I managed to get something out of the audience with my guitar - they joined in and cheered along... it's all a haze now.

In those days, I managed to feel good about myself even after bad gigs - I was walking home glad I'd survived the gig and full of the joys of spring, well, summer, but metaphors are such specific things. I said hello to people that I passed and I noticed a young lady a few feet ahead of me. I'll admit that I increased my step in order to reach her to say a good evening as well - such is my desire to meeting pretty young ladies. This one suggested that I stop and play her a song on the guitar. "Well, it's a gig" I thought and obliged. I can't remember the order in which I played the comical "Wheelbarrow Song" and the serious "Can you see?", but those were the song I played this girl - let's call her Amy, though that's not her real name... Miranda!... no it wasn't that either.

Amy asked me to her flat for some wine, via the all-night garage. I wasn't sure that I was up to the task of wine with a strange girl in her flat, but all-night-garages... I can do them. It's a mission for me. Those pasties will not eat themselves. So we went to the all-night garage where Amy bought us both a Kinder egg. This is an egg I kept until it was lost at the Edinburgh Festival 2004, where I'd been using it as a prop to tell the story. Anyway, it doesn't matter.

True to her word, Amy took me to the living room of her flat and provided wine and conversation. She'd been annoyed by some friend's boyfriend's behaviour (or something like that) and my usual brand of optimistic and respectable shite seemed to go down well with the girl. I hasten to add that I'm genuine in dispensing my shite, but it's probably shite nonetheless. At some point during the conversation, Amy suggested we retire to her bedroom for a smoke. I don't smoke. Of course she meant a "smoke" - marijuana. Again, I don't smoke, the tobacco in a joint would be the stronger substance and probably make it difficult for me - in addition, there are probably rules that prevent it being polite to ask a complete strange for a pure marijuana joint. Anyway, I have an addictive personality and intend to stay clear of drugs - it's a slippery slope. For me, I reckon it would be a puff of a joint on day 1 leading to injecting heroin into the eyeballs on day 2. However, we still retired to her room for more chat and some music.

So, quick reality check here. I'm in a strange girl's bedroom. Wow! I probably spoiled the mood somewhat by saying this out loud, but I wasn't there to create moods. I was more breaking any tension with comedy and trying to alleviate the fact that this could be awkward for the pair of us. At some point, and I'm not quite sure when, Amy announced that she was getting ready for bed and started taking her clothes off. I'm not bragging. Sure, she was attractive. No, this really happened. Honestly it did... and I honestly replied - "Well, in that case, as a gentleman, I shall look away." and I did. Infuriating. When she was in her nightwear, I suggested that perhaps I'd outstayed my welcome and had better leave. If there were signals around the place, I was gloriously missing them. Amy replied that she "couldn't be bothered to let me out" leaving me to ponder what to do next. I broached the subject of where I would be sleeping if she wasn't letting me out. Amy made it clear that I could sleep anywhere - she didn't mind.

Boldly, and accepting the fact that it would be better to be imprisoned in this girl's flat in comfort, I announced that I would be sharing the bed with her. This I did. We slept together. I didn't touch her once. I didn't dare. It was just a bit weird. Having said that, I looked on her as she slept and felt the primeval responsibility which I'm sure we all feel when sharing a room with a sleeping person - that feeling of "guard the cave". Okay, maybe that's just me. It doesn't matter. While she slept and I couldn't, I was her official protector. There. I've said it.

In the morning, it was a bit awkward. We chatted some more, I cracked jokes enough to make it clear that I wasn't dangerous - I said it was awkward, and I was released into the morning with her phone number, email address and a promise that we'd meet again. And the Kinder egg. She was a journalist for one of the Scottish newspapers, which I bought a couple of days later just to make sure this girl existed. We never met again. We swapped one or two emails, but that was that. She had various reasons not to meet- family commitments, the fact that she was moving out of the city, the fact that she didn't fancy me probably entered into it too (see, I should have ogled her when I had the chance, but I'd probably have lost respect for myself).

So I was left with the Kinder egg and the joke I wrote about it at the time. What did I have in common with that chocolate egg? Neither of us were laid.

06 September 2004
Ashley Frieze