I was in Auld Reekie yesterday evening, which involved a quick sprint into town to catch the last train before the rush-hour fares kick in. Such was my rush, however, that I didn’t pick up my return ticket from the ticket machine.
So I had to explain this to the conductor on the train to Edinburgh that I didn’t have a return, and what should I do? He said as long as I had my outgoing ticket and proof of purchase I should be fine, and it happened to people all the time. Fine.
But then I had to repeat myself to the guy at the barrier at Waverley when I arrived, again when I turned up at Waverley at the end of the evening, then on the return train, and one last time at the barriers at Queen Street.
Not a particular problem, as they all accepted that I had proof of having bought the ticket. I just got a bit fed up having to keep repeating myself, and there was always the nagging doubt that I would have the misfortune of running into a total jobsworth who would insist on me buying another ticket.
And I hate going anywhere without everything I need, like the relevant tickets. For instance I feel naked without a watch on, and when I am abroad I have an almost paranoid obsession about always knowing where my passport is. And when I leave the flat each morning I do a quick self-bodysearch to ensure that I have my wallet, flat keys, work keys, iPod, phone, and anything else I need that day, in a routine that resembles a very bad attempt at the Macarena.
It’s ironic, therefore, that I forgot to take my camera with me to Edinburgh (and yes, that is irony and not just bad luck. I hope you’re reading this, Morissette). So no swathe of uninspiring black and white photos of the Scottish Parliament from me, you’ll be glad to know. Which after a brief circumnavigation of the exterior, I can confidently report is one of the ugliest buildings I’ve ever seen. With the possible exception of St Nicholas House, the home of Aberdeen City Council.
Oh, and while we’re on the subject of Edinburgh, I’m quite proud of myself that after a year or so of Weegieland, I can now fully and easily tell the Glasgae accent, man, from the Embra accent, eh.