And Debs, I wasn't even going to Doncaster!
Ah yes, I'm in Edinburgh; it;'s the Festival; we're smelling faintly of the wet dog that lay beside us on the train. we had a nice chat with Canadian Stewart and his Russian tales and photos. I bet he wasn't expecting a Russian reader on his train from Glasgow to Edinburgh! And I wasn't expecting cupolas and cosmonauts.
Ann and I walk from the station to the first fringe playing space. Zambezi Express. Not a hint here of what amazingness we are to see later. I signed the petition under statue [see below]. Take a tour on open top bus. My first ever. And it was as it said on the tin: a guided tour. Saw the Scottish parliament, whose design got some rude comments from our guide.
Buy some new sunglasses, here above posing with them outside the toilets.
Stay over at Ann's brother's house in Leven. In the morning, and I would like this on record, I set up John's wireless internet for him. Hazel saw me using Mac and presumed computer knowledge which I didn't know I had.
Here's Ann sitting at a table outside cafe.
And above, the suicyclist and the gold postbox [presumably for Olympic medallist, Chris Hoy]. Edinburgh is full of architecture and bridges. We loved it.
Unwisely I had booked the last train from Edinborough to Leeds. It was a delayed start, owing to some problems on the line. The platform details only went up five minutes before due departure time. En masse a full trainful of anxious passengers moved from the concourse up the stairs to Platform Nine, heavy suitcases, pushchairs and all. Then they filled the carriages up down the aisles and were unseated and many in black and white.
[The last time, Debs, that I had the misfortune to be on a train with a group of football fans it was some years ago: Leeds fans getting on the Leeds train at Peterborough. On my handy minidisk, I recorded their comments on Nelson Mandela, and, if you are going to be racist, surely that is one person you would not attack! But by the time I had sent the recording [thanks to Karen G for enhancing it to decent audibility] to the police, the railway people and my MP, it was alas too late for anyone to be able to act on it].
Anyway the Newcastle fans were models of respectability and also got off at Durham and Darlington. By now we were too late for our York connection. We were advised to stay on the train all the way to Doncaster, and get the Leeds train there. Yo! At York some posh drunks got on [as they do], and offended me immediarely by using the f word in front of children next to us. Then posh bloke starts talking about us fellow-passengers, and giving a running commentary on our actions to his posh drunk friends. I was cutting up a tune that I was [physically] re-arranging with some stationery safety scissors. Poshman approaches. He sees the sheet music on my little table :
I hope you you don't mind me asking [I did], but what music is that? What style? What genre? I sighed. It's no style, I said, it's just music. He went on: is it classical or blues or what? I told him it would any style that I wanted and that I was just re-arranging it . . . . and then I found myself saying, sotto voce: I would like to point out to you here that I am holding a sharp object. Indicating the far from sharp scissors. Pacifist that I am, I surprised myself here. Poshman retired back to his little group and I heard no more from him. I went on working out that Song A was structured in lines of six. Fascinating. I got off at Doncaster and took the train there from Leeds, where a Newcastle fan in black and white helped me off the train with my luggage.