Waterlogged Edinburgh

By mid-day I had already written to my friends that I had given up on spring; that as far as I could see we were stuck with eternal winter for good so it was time to start investing in skis, start buying provisions and prepare for when the polar bears come knocking. The snow was falling frantically, in a massed effort to fill every inch of available air, and to cover every square metre of surface. The temperature was too high, however, and all the weather managed to achieve was awful, ugly slush. Which kept melting. Little trickles of water turned into streams, running in the gutters, carrying leaves and trash, blocking the drains, overflowing on the streets, and finding their way to the river.

Waterlogged park.

I met with a friend in the afternoon; the sun had come out for the first time in a good few days, so we dumped our bags at my flat and went for a short walk, taking advantage of the weather's sudden change of heart. There was standing water everywhere. In the park, dogs and children paddled in belly-deep puddles, to the despair of their owners and parents. Daffodils rediscovered their watery origins as temporary ponds were created around them. The world was washed clean, but the mop and the bucket were still out, witnesses to the work recently done.

Fun in the park.

We walked along the river as well, or rather tried to – when we reached Dean Village it became impossible to follow the river-side path, as it was no longer there. It had disappeared under ten centimetres of roaring, clear water. I had never seen the river as full as it was this afternoon, happy, fulfilling its destiny, playing around with is power. Watching it, so strong and full and real, tugging at weeds, burrowing into the banks, felt liberating.

The peaceful Dean Village and the roaring river.

I did not have to leave for the airport until eleven, so for once I had the right amount of time to dedicate to the making of my mushroom risotto. We kept chatting as I continued to slowly add the broth, ladle-full by ladle-full, with an unusual amount of patience – normally if a meal takes more than half an hour to prepare I grow impatient and up eating half-cooked dishes. But chatting with Thirdtoes gave the afternoon a lovely, carefree rhythm and I was beyond being bothered by anything. Her third sector job manages to combine academic insights with real-life applications, and sounds fascinating. I really enjoy her cutting-through-the-bullshit approach, straightforwardness and acuteness, so refreshing after weeks of mild and tepid political correctness of the office!

After a long dinner the effort of getting off the couch and stepping outside was almost unbearable. Our eyes were as if smeared with honey, we could easily have curled up and fall asleep where we were sitting. Full of beer, rice, spinach and yoghurt, we made our way slowly (very slowly, as we both got stitches from overating) up Princes Street, to jump on respective buses. I was taking the swish and clean airport express to pick up my dad; I swear, the bus has a better décor and is more comfortable than more than one airline it has been my dubious pleasure to patronise! Now I join the crowd of pacers, nail-biters and mobile-phone-glancers as I wait for the plane with my Easter guests to arrive.