There is a lot to be said for the idiom, 'you can't go home twice', and before today I never truly understood what it meant. If I'm honest I believe I mocked and scorned the notion as I have spent my life coming back home after work/school/holidays, but that was a dickheadish notion espoused by a self-righteous scrotum who actually knew better, but chose inflammatory intransigence nevertheless…
I was worried that the city I'd called home for four years would either be too alien or too much of a head mangle to enjoy. But despite all my fears to the contrary, Edinburgh was as marvellous and as homely as ever. The irony of this medium aside, not once did I experience a barrage of introspective reflection or wallow in the popular culture of sharing my feelings through staged piety.
On the one hand I have long since got bored with the hipster culture that all social science undergraduates fall into, but also Edinburgh would never tolerate such a performance, the honest, self-effacing city that it is. 'Get over yourself and have two more drinks, a spade's a spade!'
But I digress...
48 hours in the Scottish capital is a fine way to pass the time, and as an entirely undiluted exposure the only way for a former resident to appreciate its wonder. But you can't go home twice. No, it would lose the magic. Just like a fling with a former lover, getting back into day-to-day life in all its cold, mundane reality would forever ruin what it has become. in my old age I enjoy the warmth and soft edges of English country life. Give me my brandy and an evening in the company of Holst, content in the knowledge that Scotland and all its edgy Celtic wonder is just up the road... it also gives me something to moan about when commuting in and out of London every day.
Oh woe betide! I'm off to listen to Radiohead.