A stiff East Coast breeze blows up my coat sleeves and chills my heart as usual; it peppers my eyes with tiny bits of grit and I weep grey Niddry Street tears.
For much of the last two days, I've been sitting in an intellectual stew: a very friendly and interesting one, thank goodness. Suddenly, I know about copyright in Senegalese Rap, and Finnish yoik.(autocorrect that, iPhone!)
I have presented my paper and imagined a virtual bookshelf of essential new texts, and been mildly scared by Robert Christgau. There are some old pals here and some writers whose books have become close companions, and I have met some stimulating new people.
Edinburgh is as bonkers as ever. High culture rubs shoulders with charity shops (three interesting albums, only faintly scratched, bought on the way there this morning).
I escaped a looming pub crawl to look for fish and chips, but instead found a Lebanese Cafe full of what I took to be Lebanese people. It was the right decision to eat there, but I do smell of barbecued food and chips. Eau de caff!
On the way to the bus stop, my path was blocked as the pavement was spilling over with a hen party who were full of excitement, and bubbling over with pride in their idea. No pink bunny ears, micro-mini skirts and porn heels for them! They sported rollers in their hair (some hair dyed bright blue-grey), 50s frilly pinnies, slippers, thick foundation face make-up and coral lipstick. They knew how funny they were and they tumbled along like a clutch of puppies chasing butterflies.
It's so subversive not to be sexy!
Apologies for typos. The phone's slapping unmovable 'send feedback' messages all over the place. The feedback I want to send as a consequence of this is unprintable.