Scottish Rainbow

Disclaimer - This is far away from my usual work published on this site but my website is the best current platform for the creative partnership between my good friend and journalist, Joel Watson, who wrote this piece, and myself documenting our endeavours.

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Death, death, death. Everything is death.

The sun was shining the next morning when we arose with pounding heads from our bunks. I staggered to the bathroom to examine the damage in the mirror. I looked like someone had thrown a handful of chili powder into my face the night before, although I was pleased to note Ben didn’t look much better. Only one thing for it: curl up in a ball at the base of the shower and turn the water down to cold. Somehow I fell asleep.

I was rudely awoken from this pleasant slumber by the room-cleaning services telling us we’d overstayed our check-out time. Crap. In a hurry we bundled all our possessions away and dragged ourselves downstairs. We were already late for a meeting with one of Ben’s high-octane photography friends and by the time we ventured out into the blazing sun it was close to noon.

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We arrived at a café and ordered coffees with the bright and cheerful photographer (Ben interjection - the brilliant Flemming Bo Jensen!). Now, normally I can feign interest in conversations dominated by focal lengths and exposure times, but I could only think about the churning maelstrom that was my stomach. Tequila is a cruel mistress. I left the pair to compare the merits of various shutter speeds to find the bathrooms. Luckily the place was pretty swanky and the facilities were regularly cleaned. It made me feel slightly less disgusting as I took a brief nap curled around a toilet bowl.

I could see Ben and his friend recoil when I emerged. Maybe it was the smell, or maybe it was the imprint of floor-tiles on my face, who can say? Either way my return marked the end of our little meeting and we went off to complete a bit of sight-seeing on our final day.

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Our flight wasn't until late in the evening so we had time to walk down town to a different hipster district. Even for a place that could have been twinned with Shoreditch, it was remarkably clean. I was also struck by how quiet the city was. It was a bright Monday afternoon that in London would have seen the streets rammed with people, but off the main high street we seemed to have the place to ourselves.

We were the only customers in a little café that provided us some refuge from the sun. Clearly today was not a great day to be walking around. We had no money left, I was sweating cocktails and we’d left our baggage in a timed locker in the hostel that was dangerously close to running out. We decided to have a wobbly bike ride back to the hostel and lie comatose in beanbag chairs until it was time to leave for our flight. Until next time, Copenhagen.

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