I had a tried and trusted way of sussing out a potential new boyfriend. During one of our early dates they had to pass “The Midsummer Audition”. This helped me ascertain whether:
a) they were a good match
b) they were literate
The audition of which I speak relates to my favourite play, Midsummer by David Grieg, of which, I’m freakishly obsessed! The hilarious, epic tale of a great lost weekend lived out by the characters, Bob and Helena, vicariously lived through by its audience. When I first saw it my entire being identified with the tale of two seemingly mismatched individuals brought together by chance. I also revelled in the fact that Edinburgh, the city that I called home, was the backdrop for all of the riotous action.
But it was always the love story that I liked best. How two people so seemingly unalike, from different backgrounds, with their own trials and tribulations, heartaches and hangups were just… right together. I was forever quoting the play’s watchwords: “Change Is Possible”, but the bit that got me every time was when Bob asked Helena to join him on an adventure of some sort:
‘So, what do you say?’
To which, Helena would answer,
‘Yes, I say yes.’
I wanted this. This in all of its spontaneous, big-hearted, soul-dancing, romance. This.
And so began “The Midsummer Audition”: the search to find my Bob.
The potential candidate needed to pass by doing a read-through of the play with me. It would be my way – I figured – of gauging chemistry, synergy and shenanigans co-pilot potential – usually involving alcohol. My banter barometer, if you like.
My search took a while and ranged from the ridiculous to the downright rude. There was the tortured poet who got annoyed with himself for not delivering the lines perfectly; the guy who got the hiccups halfway through then puked into my orchid plant; the one who was just too posh to pull it off; the one who was too drunk to see the script; and finally the the one who kept looking at his mobile phone throughout the read.
No, I say no.
But then, one night in February 2015, in a pub off Broughton Street, I met a guy called Andy. He was handsome, funny, liked the same bands that I was into and had read a lot of the same books. There was a kindness in his eyes. We flirted and really hit it off. But the clincher came when we started talking theatre. Not only had he actually heard of the play Midsummer, he even owned a copy of the script!
‘We could always go back to my flat and read it? What do you say?’
‘Yes… ’
This one had potential.
Fast forward to Midsummer, 2020 and Edinburgh exhales a sigh of relief at the temporary reprieve from lockdown. It is a dazzling summer day and Princes Street Gardens is ripe for a spot of Midsummer mischief. Armed with a couple of bottles of champagne, a guitar and our dog, Nonny, we hit up the park. We sit busking songs from the play, entertaining the punters, drinking and sharing our champagne (acts of generosity are a big part of the Midsummer spirit) and reading out passages from the script to each other.
I look across at Andy and smile. Andy, who on a particular date every year, is willing to dress up like a mad tramp and belt out songs in Princes Street Gardens with me. Andy, my spontaneous, big-hearted, romantic boyfriend. I know I’ve found my Bob.
So when he gets down on one knee, throws away the script and starts quoting Midsummer straight at me saying:
‘“… if I don’t do something now I never will – and all the things I’ve never done will stay undone and then one day I’ll take a breath and then after it I’ll realise there’s never another one coming – and at that moment I’ll remember the day…”’
He pulled out a ring from his pocket and said, ‘Will you marry me?’
There was only ever going to be one answer,
‘Yes, I say yes.’
The light catches the bubbles as they dance in our glasses on this, the longest day of the year, which today, after years of auditioning, belongs to us.