Despite the odd accidental child-beating, the rest of the trip was amazing. My favourite part (of my life in general, not just the trip) was meeting up with my friend Amy and being taken to visit The Elephant House café, made famous by J.K. Rowling as the café where she wrote the first few Harry Potter books. (I know. Kezia and I hyperventilated almost the entire way there. And back. And whilst inside. In fact, I'm feeling a bit short of breath just thinking about it.) Here is a picture of me inside said café:
The look on my face is what can only be described as my 'I'm so happy I could die' face, usually only found in pictures involving either ice cream or famous people. Thankfully, there isn't a picture that involves both. The rest of the trip was filled with shopping, avoiding fundraisers in the street (which, considering she is about to start a job doing just that, Kezia should really have thought twice about), and playing board games after discovering a new found love for Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit. It's annoying how everyone in hostels seem to be unnaturally cool without even trying, and even more so when you realise how uncool you look in comparison by screaming 'NO!!' at a boardgame and questioning whether or not the name of the Asian supermarket in town counts as a word. (For future reference, H-A-Q-S is not allowed).
Upon returning from Edinburgh, I bit the bullet and introduced Peter to my mother (an occasion for cheesecake, wouldn't you know). Thankfully, things ran smoothly and there wasn't a repeat performance of the time she met my first boyfriend when I was fourteen and decided that that was the moment to whip out a hideous pair of sparkly gold shoes she was expecting me to wear for a wedding. There was nothing to do except stand in my kitchen, mortified, and hope that my Linkin Park hoodie would swallow me up whole. Fortunately, Peter's visit was less horrific (I might go as far to say pleasant), and I was even exempt from eating any broccoli with my dinner, a rarity I doubt I can manage to get away with again, even if I am thirty with two children and my own house.
Although I enjoy doing nothing, and I feel I have "worked" hard enough this year to deserve some time off, my bank account seems to have a different idea and as a result I will soon be starting work again. What joy... Hopefully, though, this will mean I get to stop rationing my money and not have to store my wees up for the public toilets in Tesco to save on toilet roll. I can maybe even afford to treat myself to some more socks as I ran out the other day and was forced to wear slipper socks to town, as a result of which my feet seemed to take on the impression that they belonged to the Hulk rather than myself. I mean, I could just do some laundry, but where would the fun be in that?