AUGUST, BLOODY AUGUST
Hello September. You're welcome. Cooler weather, calmer city. Hockey is back, rugby soon to follow, and the winter weekends begin to take shape for me. August was the usual mix of heaven and hell.
August in Edinburgh. festival month. Correction, festivals month. Lots of them. Lots of shows and exhibitions and venues and acts. And tourists. So many tourists. If a city could be full to the gunnels (it certainly can't be the gunwales, can it?) then this one was packed. Tourists, tourists everywhere, and lots of them with drink.
We ventured to a few Fringe shows (only eighteen this time, the number seems to decline every year now, perhaps as we decline...), but kept out of town otherwise. Even then the usual words were frequently on our lips. "Fekin tourists!" Gawping, dawdling, blocking, obscuring, bewildering, straying, misplaced souls that they all seemed to be. With disregard for all but themselves, forever in the way of locals, forever a source of irritation.
Post-Fringe, our end-days of August were spent on trains and in Brussels. Where we gawped and dawdled and blocked and obscured and bewildered and strayed and were misplaced constantly. We tried not to be, honest. But how can you not when you're that thing - fekin tourists... Sorry Brusselians (?).
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