The movers are here now. I type this against the background chatter of ripped masking tape and heavy cardboard boxes being assembled by rough, experienced hands. Tonight this flat will be empty save for two beds and the three of us. In just under 60 hours the plane will lift off from Heathrow, bound first for Dubai, then on beyond to Melbourne.
We are away to Tasmania.
Eight years and two months ago, almost to the day, I arrived in Edinburgh without a clue of why or really how I had come to Scotland. I spent that first summer alone, walking and watching. The Make Poverty History march astounded me, and the warm sunny days and lingering twilights tricked me into thinking it would always be this way.