Not The 'Misery' One

I knew Paul at school.

I remember Calum and I sat in Chemistry one time looking at him with puzzled expressions as he sat there messing with a piece of equipment and making sizzling noises.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm cooking my breakfast."

He had drawn bacon or eggs or some such and was pretending to cook it. Naturally, being teenage boys, we pissed ourselves laughing.

You know when you get to laughing so bad that you can't even look at the other person? Mostly at times when you shouldn't be laughing. Your shoulders bob up and down in silent hysterics as you try to suppress the mirth.

That's how we used to end up in lessons. Not always but enough to make me smile to think of it.

Paul, Jamie and I used to go out drinking and clubbing in Edinburgh and both Paul and I were lucky enough to benefit from Jamie's attendance at George Watson's by way of introduction to the girls of that institution. I think Paul came out tops with Merry and I struggled with Laura.

But most of the time was spent listening to records in each others bedrooms and talking rubbish. Paul always remarked he could see if I was in my room as the window faced the road he walked down and the bedroom light illuminated the 'Head On The Door' poster I had. This was visible on the cupboard door opposite the window.

After school we drifted apart slowly as Paul went to college (might have been Newcastle) and I dropped out and moved out and started working.

He died on a night out with his brother. There may have been another person with them. I don't believe I ever knew the exact circumstances but there was an altercation of sorts which resulted in Paul facing two blokes on his own with his brother catching up. He was stabbed in the heart and died in his brothers arms a short time later.

There were appeals for information and a concerted media campaign at the time around youth and knife crime as a result (and indeed, as there has been every time since). Paul's parents appeared on TV and there was a considerable press presence at his funeral.

His parents wanted the funeral to be a 'celebration' so mourners were encouraged to dress however they wished. Being a Goth it wasn't hard to 'dress up' for a funeral and the, at the time, future Mrs H and I have probably never looked better. Paul would have been proud. He loved the look but his hair was all the wrong colour to go for it - a kind of auburny brown. I also think he was too life-loving to really commit to the moroseness required of a teenage Goth.

They caught the two blokes and if my memory serves, which in the main - it doesn't, they blamed each other initially. However, it ended up they both went to prison. I don't remember the sentences.

Paul is buried at Currie Kirk and my parents live in Balerno, for those of you lucky enough to know the geography, so I go and see him when we visit. I was in Edinburgh recently and took this picture.