Train to Edinburgh yesterday. Coming back to the city is a reminder that
I'm living in a suburb of Livingston in a quiet cul-de-sac with only the sound
of magpies, the cooing of fat, well-fed pigeons and other ornithological
species I know very little about.
When we first moved here, Livingston Removals brought our stuff from the city. Two workers in the van warned us, "You're moving to a posh area. You'd better keep your grass mowed!" It's true. Manicured gardens, cars washed and polished weekly, and walking the dog the main activity of the neighbours. They talk to their dogs in a very educated way: "Come out of that bush right away Chelsea." "We'll go home now. OK, Let's go." "Good boy. There's a good boy. Come here. Time for dinner"
(I had a dog, a greyhound labrador cross called Zango. She was trained on three one-word commands: Heel! Sit! Stay! That seemed to do it.)
So back to the city where people seem to be acted upon rather
than acting: many having a somnambular visage and a robotic gait. Crowds and traffic. I feel awkward walking in
a sea of people, weaving and sidestepping my way along Princes Street.
Then on to Tashi and his wife Pema's house: a little flat in a tenement just off Dalry Road in the west of the city. He and his wife are Tibetan. Tashi is desperate to buy a house though this seems unrealistic. He works on people's buildings as a qualified stonemason.
I explain to Tashi what I know about the ins and outs of securing a loan at his bank, percentage deposits, and likely monthly payments for a mortgage. A week later He texted me that he'd found a house near the airport. He described to me a hobbit house with lots of surrounding land to build vegetable patches.
This seems ideal - except there is no real access road and planes take off and land a few hundred metres from the house, shaking the walls every 5 minutes.
I'm not sure if the culture or his daily intake of weed is responsible, but Tashi is a master procrastinator.
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