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Fireworks.

Every year. Princes Street Gardens coils up tight with people picnicking competitively (chopping bards, camping chairs, candles, brie, feta salad, champagne, pink champagne, flasks of coffee, flasks of ambrosia, chips and cheese for those unaware of the competition).

They huddle under rugs and praise dry skies. My mother insisted I wear a skiing jacket (‘Its got down in it, real down!’ etc) and as my sister and her boyfriend celebrated their third fireworks as a couple, I delicately resisted vomiting into my own downy hood, and ate smoked salmon and counted my smoked-fish-based blessings.

The fireworks were marvellous. Beyond compare, and no, I took no photos, because the joy and spirit of fireworks lies in their momentary nature, and the magic is is entirely sapped out of them if there is a camera between your eyes and the wonderful luxury of explosives which illuminate and do not harm.

So why am I here, loathsomely blogging?

 

Several reasons. I want to write about writing, and I want a chance to skive off writing when the works strart waving pitchforks, and come and gabble here instead, where I don’t give a flying hoot about phrasing.

 

I want to write about all the things I like to do and try to do: writing, of course, and singing and cooking and knitting and learning to embroider, and everything from the 11th century onwards which thrills me, and gothic heroes, and probably sometimes poor pop music. (NB. I do not try to ‘do’ gothic heroes. This would imply problems distinguishing fact from fiction, and whilst I do have such problems, they are not yet all-consuming.) I also act, write plays, dawdle about in galleries and museums, sitting on all those seats they provide but expect nobody to sit on. I worry a lot, and sometimes go running. I laugh heaps, and try to watch films which are either beautiful or thought provoking. I meander through fanfic, I sometimes have opinions, and I collect old spoons. I also collect postcards and discarded clothes, old teacups, notebooks, and other people. I do pretty much the same things everybody else does, except that I tend to do them fast, and then collapse in a sleepy heap. 

I am also  writing this blog because a wonderful woman in glasses once told me I was good at blogging. In fact, so did the ex-Bishop of Edinburgh, if such things hold sway with you.

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