SCOTLAND


Praying For Rain: On an Overnight Bus to Edinburgh


There is nothing better than being cast adrift on a bus on the open road. 

It is somewhere near midnight, lights off, blinds up, silence:  the perfect conditions for the paranoia of a wandering mind. 

Bugger, I think, where are we? 

The destination may be set in stone, but whatever the prearranged final Mecca the endless asphalt in-between casts the traveller adrift in the passionate embrace of loneliness. It is exhilarating, yes, but it also somewhat disquieting, as no matter how you look at it you have absolutely no control over your fate. 

And it is raining outside, which is never a good sign when heading on a resolutely fixed course of due north. Still, at least it isn't snowing. Well, not yet anyway. You see, Scotland is a highly unpredictable beast, even in summer. I remember once when I lived in Edinburgh I was walking through a vicious shower of freezing rain so determined that even the Big Issue sellers had scarpered. And I thought, 'yeah, summer, they must be lying to us...' 

But that was years ago, back when I worried about such things and thought that cowboy hats were fashionable. Today the rain doesn't concern me. At least not when the cricket is on. Bugger it, I decide, I'm a Celt and as such I am a member of the only race of human that is cold blooded and designed to enjoy misery. 

My mind is set. I hope it's raining in Edinburgh... But first of all I have to trust a driver to negotiate all this tarmac. Which isn't an easy thing on a road covered with puddles...



Pit Stops: The Land of the Human Zombie


Pit stops: every compulsive spender's nightmare.

And at 1.47 in the middle of the night it is also the stomping ground of choice for the zombiefied human dribbler.

Nobody expects anything of you apart from your money, and when in such an arse-about-face frame of mind handing over your hard-earned cash is about all you can do.

Nowhere else is it the norm to pay two quid -a minor fortune - for a tin of fizz.

Nowhere else is it considered normal to drink a gallon of coffee with a side of burgers when the rest of the world is asleep.

And then there's the devil himself in the form of the all night fast food conglomerate that only needs to broadcast the first letter of its name to smash through your sensibilities and suck your wallet - and your health - dry.

Call me a cynic - 'cynic!' - but if you want to make a fortune, forget banking. Open a roadside service station.



Health and Safety During the Scottish Summer


Princess Street, 10.46 am. 

It's wet and I'm buying socks as my original pair is wetter than a fish convention. 

It's my own fault really as I tempted fate on the way up here and so it succumbed. Does fate succumb to temptation? Evidently. It's wet. There is rain. More clouds are predicted. 

My new socks carry a health and safety warning. 

"Wash when dirty."


Puddle Hopping


It's not yet midday, but five hours of puddle-hopping have forced my hand.

Location: Shakespeare's Pub.

It's funny being here as the city looks as it ever did. It feels like I never left and I am pleased to see it was able to go on without me. Yep, it does not seem to have missed me in the slightest. Well. We all need to have the ego checked now and again...

Curses to you Edinburgh, you fickle feline-like swine!  Where was my welcome back party? 

I guess all the money was spent on the London Olympics.

Damn those humble athletes...



Reflections of A Self-Righteous Scrotum



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… 

ANYWAY! 

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.

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