The Definite Article

But, ouch, I think my nose is bleeding.

Saturday was the Calcutta Cup, an annual fixture played between Scotland and England since 1879. England has held the Calcutta Cup for the last six years, having beaten Scotland every year.

The Scottish side is traditionally flukey and unpredictable. This year's Six Nations opening fixture was against France, widely viewed as the best side in the Northern Hemisphere, probably second in the world (to the All Blacks, naturally).

Scotland took the field and dominated France almost as if they weren't playing, with the notable exception of this one blonde headed French forward who seemed to be everywhere at once. He was amazing, but couldn't carry the side.

The Scots even scored a try off a 24 yard rolling maul. You read that correctly. Unbelievable.

At any rate, this was an amazing start to the season and a total upset, almost as topsy turvy as Wales' unexpected upturning of Englang, the reigning Rugby World Champions, in last years first game. The fact that we went on to lose to an appallingly awful Welsh side the following week had a very business as usual feel about it. I'm a Cleveland Browns fan, so Scottish sport makes me feel right at home.

But then England was coming for the Calcutta Cup last Saturday.

The mood was festive. In front of a sold out Murrayfield, Scotland gave lessons in how to conduct a surgical defense and engaged in an offence that consisted largely of drawing penalties. There was an act of atrocious incompetence on the English side (a knock on inside the two effectively cleared their chance at a try) and the final score was 18-12, Scotland. I've been humming Tchaikovsky ever since.

The streets filled with celebrants. Ingrida was working that night. She works front of house at the Hallion, a private club and supposedly was working until midnight. Some time around half-ten she sent me a text saying she might be a bit late.

I was out revelling myself, so this was fine. I packed it in at half-midnight, figuring I'd get home, collect her and then we'd head off to Charlie and Ian's for further late night revellry, since that's where the craic was.

It was not to be. Instead, I waited. And waited. And waited. At three, Suzy came home, all tiptoes and whispers.

"Where's Ingrida?" She asked.

"I don't know." I said. "Work, probably." Alarm bells were going off in my head. I'd dozed off and had no idea what time it was.

"It's three." She said. "Seems a bit odd, don't you think?"

Earlier in the evening, when a pack of us were walking back from Cloisters, we came across a man pestering and trying to molest a woman; both were hammered and about twenty. We'd yelled a bit and headed over, but other passersby got there first and were fairly forceful about the whole thing, but it was playing over in my head.

I put my boots on and marched off to the Hallion, following the path that I figured Ingrida would have taken home. Every five minutes or so I stopped and scanned the Gardens to see if she was lying unconcious and cold on a path somewhere. I was growing increasingly worried. I began to have visions of poor Ingrida, of Irma, blaming me, me apologizing to Ojars: "I'm sorry, Mr. Kalnins. If only I'd gone looking sooner this never would have happened."

I finally arrived at the imposing black doors of the Hallion. I rang the buzzer several times, but there was no answer. It was four a.m. now; Ingrida was four hours late. The streets were filled with the seriously drunken, predators, pickpockets, drugdealers and thugs. In cheerier moments I'd have described them as colorful. Now they seemed dark and ominous.

I called information, got the number for the Hallion and called. The night porter answered on the first ring.

"Are you open?" I asked.

"No." He replied.

"Are the staff still there?"

"Yes. But we are closed. What do you want?" His voice was hesitant.

"My girlfriend, Ingrida, works there. Is she still there?" I asked.

"Hold on. I'll get her." Floods of delicious relief filled me.

"Ingrida!" I heard him shout in the background. "Your boyfriend is on the phone!"

Then I heard Ingrida, the click of heels on stone, her casual tone. "Which one?" She asked as she took the phone. "Hello?"

I was silent for a moment. "What do you mean 'Which one?'" I said.

"Oh! Hey, Puika! How are you?" She asked.

"Cold." I said. I meant it, too. Inside and out. I'd just walked the length of Edinburgh at 4 a.m. checking behind dumpsters for her unconcious body and she'd been at work the whole time.

"Are you at home?" She asked.

"No, I'm outside the front door of the Hallion."

"Oh! Right. I'll let you in, hold on a second."

And she did and I went inside feeling slightly poisonous and got the rest of the story, which was that it had been a mental night, with over three hundred guests and massive quantities of alcohol consumed and she'd stayed on to help; it had been frantic. The last guests had left at half-three and then the staff had been cleaning and scrubbing to prepare the club for Sunday morning.

In the course of the evening, several guests had made passes at her and had been phoning the club asking after her and a couple had even said they were her boyfriend. She and the night porter had made a joke out of it.

When we finally climbed into bed at five, I was glad that the emotional roller coaster was over and I got to be next to my baby.