Toward the Grassmarket.

Ahead a young man is shouting. He's pressing against another. The other is shouting LISTEN TO YOURSELF. LISTEN TO YOURSELF. He pushes him; he pushes him back. They begin to fight as I pass. A girl cuts away from the one who holds her—"John, John, no, John!"

Along a ways, two cops in their flourescent safety green vests stroll along. They should know about the fight. I compose. "There's a bit of a fight going on just down there." Another man is talking to them. He is pointing at the fight.

Ahead further is a club; loads of people wait outside. A press. Clamouring. Past run two girls in minis (20? 23?). They shuffle to run in their encumbering shoes. She laughs to her friend, "It's like Trainspotting!"

A man is kicking a broken road sign. Two others in kilts, fine young lads, walk up. "Where are you taking that?" "Wot?!" "Let him be, mate."

A woman has slipped out of her shoe. "Are you from Ireland then?" says a man. "Yeah, I've got it," she answers. Cutting across the road, I am stopped: "Eh, mate, you know where the Grassmarket is?" "Yeah, it's just along this road, back that way."