This morning, before catching the train home from Edinburgh (which I'm still on as we speak; delayed, of course), I took a taxi to the Parcelforce depot and back to my digs, to send my projector, screen and the rest of my equipment down south. Thankfully, this went pretty seamlessly, which was good, as I was worried something would slow me down and make me miss my train.
While there weren't any problems to stall me, the journey was eventful, which I documented for posterity on Twitter. See below a blow-by-blow account of my trip; who says my blog isn't a fascinating and useful resource?
8:55am: Passing through Edinburgh in a taxi to drop off my props at the Parcelforce depot. It's already a ghost town comparatively, post-EdFringe.
9:04am: Passing a shop called Better Tiles. Than whom?
9:05am: Passing Black Dog Barbers. Tailoring specifically to a depressed Winson Churchill?
9:06am: ...and SuperNews. For SuperTed?
9:08am: ...and a Café Bistro. Identity crisis?
9:09am: ...and Edinburgh Carstore. Often confused with Edinburgh Castle.
9:11am: ...and a building called, simply, Restaurant.
9:22am: Picture on a bus stop of a Panda, with the tagline, 'I took a bus to tackle climate change'. Did he though?
9:24am: Just passed a clinic called Babes in the Womb. I don't remember that panto.
9:25am: (We're having fun on this journey, aren't we?)
9:26am: Hello! There's a business next to Better Tiles called Better Bathrooms. Diversifying.
9:28am: Shop called Bitz and Bobz. Eightiez?
9:31am: Tattooist called Three Daggers. Terrifying.
9:32am: Sign reading 'Apologise for any inconvenience caused'. No.
9:35am: ...West End Vets. Pet Shop Boys tribute?
9:45am: Just the Tonic at The Caves is all packed up on the outside. Sad face.
Over the past week or two, I’ve been on a bit of a Sheryl Crow kick, largely thanks to rediscovering her cover of one of my most-liked Bob Dylan songs. She has one of my favourite female voices, yet despite this, I only own one CD and that’s just a single (her '97 release ‘Hard to Make a Stand’); on that basis, you can only imagine how much of her back catalogue I’d own if I hated her (it would fall into minus-figures). Dylan, conversely, takes up more of my collection than anyone else, save The Beatles and Paul McCartney’s solo work. He’s one of those artists who, when you get him, you really get him - and once I’d tuned into his style as a student, I'd time and again be blown away by his lyrics; he’ll have more jaw-dropping imagery in one track than other people fit in a whole career. These days, I mostly listen to music in the morning when getting ready, and more often than not, this will consist of a suggested YouTube playlist when I’m in the bath, r...