The Wrong Kind of Bookworm
Since returning home, I’ve fallen in love with Edinburgh.
Alright, let’s be real: since the sun came out, I’ve fallen in love with Edinburgh.
Fallen in love as in, it drives me batty when I can’t walk down the Royal Mile without being offered five hundred flyers and being cut off and walked into another fifty times. As in, I hate the way you just casually forget that it’s summer. As in, you drive me round the bend but I just can’t stay mad at you, because even on your driechest, most miserable days, I’ll turn some corner and see the Castle or the Royal Mile or Arthur’s Seat in the distance, and it will just take my breath away. I still love you, Edinburgh – even if you do neglect me in favour of some exciting new hoardes of people for a month every year.
I digress. The point is, I’ve been unable to stop myself from buying books and magazines about Edinburgh, unable to stop blogging about Edinburgh, and unable to stop thinking about the life I want to live in Edinburgh. Consequently, while my bedside table should be filled with books such as these:
It is, in fact, filled with magazines and guides such as these:
I really do love languages, and I really do enjoy reading the prescribed study material (at least, a lot more than I expect many students enjoy reading their course books). But somehow, every time I sit down to read, I remember that there’s a book about the most beautiful places to run around my city, or a catalogue of events for the Edinburgh International Festival, the Fringe Festival, or the Book Festival (I saw Theatre Tasters today, a mêlée of short plays directed by my colleague Flavia D’Avila, and loved it to bits. It’s free, so if you’re in town I’d highly recommend that you go!). Anyway, the point is, I’m easily distracted; and consequently, I’m only halfway through one of the twelve or so books I wanted to have finished reading by the time term began again
Well, I’m off to plan a running route for tomorrow before I head out to work. Hugs and kisses!