Edinburgh was nice, as you’d expect. What a gorgeous city. It does feel a bit like a Scottish-themed amusement park, though. Lots of Americans buying kilts. (Note: only Scottish men may wear kilts. And “My grandfather was Scottish” doesn’t count.) I wouldn’t have been surprised at dinner to see a bagpiper wandering through the restaurant serenading the punters. (That would be a hell of a way to keep up a brisk turnover, come to think of it.) Photoset is here.
I swear to God though, there is something in the air in Scotland that induces hangovers. I got only very modestly drunk (mostly in the hotel bar, where SiC loudly made some crack about Scousers being thieves, as you do, and was then confronted by a pissed-off but very polite couple from Liverpool and spent the rest of the evening making reparations) and was in bed long before midnight, but I woke up the next morning feeling like my head had been sacked by Mongol hordes. In fact, we both felt so bad that we went straight to the airport and got on an earlier flight home. Weak, dude.
So, summer (such as it wasn’t) is over. Good. At least now when I wake up in the morning to clouds and rain I’m not disappointed. ‘Blustery’ is fine in autumn, but gets a bit trying in summer. I would like my seasons to behave according to expected parameters, please. Anyway, at least now I can stop feeling guilty that the garden looks like crap.
And I can start fighting with my husband over the thermostat controls. SiC does not believe in heat and could probably take a cheerful stroll across Antarctica in a T-shirt. I, however, on the other hand, have had more than enough of cold in my short lifetime and now that I’ve moved away from the land of the ice and snow (sings the immigrant) I no longer have any interest in braving extreme conditions, especially not indoors. SiC finally caved in yesterday and turned on the heat after I warned him that I would start wearing his jumpers. He hates it when I wear his clothes. I know how he feels: my best lacy knickers are all stretched out.