Three years ago today, Rhi and I were floating somewhere above China, halfway between our old life in Australia and whatever lay in store for us in Scotland. Yesterday afternoon Gareth and I were walking down North Bridge in Edinburgh, picking our way through the crowds of tourists and goths. A woman was sprawled on the footpath, her bleached tresses askew, her trousers around her ankles. Her equally inebriated mate was trying and failing miserably to help her to her feet. "'Scuse me pal," he yelled out to Gareth, "Gis a hand to pick her up?" It took all three of us to haul off her the ground. Unusually she had not been floating in a puddle of vomit or pee. "Aww thankshh," she slurred, wrestling her handbag back over her shoulder. "Thankssho much!" "That's okay," said Gareth. "See ya later." We headed off down the street. "Wuh-wuh-wait!" hollered the guy. We turned back. "Would you mind pulling her troosers up?" he asked me. "She cannae dae it hersel'." Without hesitation, I walked behind the woman. Crouching down, I regarded her bare buttocks – pale, gelatinous and bisected by a sparkly black g-string. I gathered up her jeans and gave a brisk upward yank. "Aww thanks. Yer so kind hen thanksshomuch." "No problem!" We strolled on. It wasn't til about an hour later that Gareth said, "Wait a minute, did you just pull up some bare-cheeked lassie's trousers in the middle of the street without even pausing for thought?" After three years, it had seemed like just another sunny 4 o'clock in Scotland. But had that happened on Day One, I probably would have run screaming straight back to the airport.