Central Library

This is a view of the turreted Central Library on George IVth Bridge in Edinburgh, seen from Greyfriars churchyard before the rains came this morning.

It is a vast building which reaches down many levels to the Cowgate, and is home to every kind of book imaginable, and a retreat for anyone needing a bit of warmth during the winter, so long as they only speak in whispers and don't rustle their newspapers or prescription bags.

It was here that the much younger Lady Findhorn went with her library tickets to chose her childhood reading matter, and it was here that her mother, the Dowager Lady Findhorn, enquired of the librarian if it was normal for her child to read exclusively Enid Blyton - and no I wasn't 16 at the time, probably nearer 9.

Isn't it funny how one remembers little hurts from across the decades perpetrated by otherwise loving parents, and isn't it strange what similar little hurts have been bestowed carelessly and unthinkingly on one's own children? Not that they're slow to tell you about them when they've grown up.

With the rains came a trip to the Land of Flowers, just to test our resolve on the cake front. It says a lot that we marched past the temptresses ( I think cakes are feminine) without a sideways look and found ourselves staring at the bleak sight of 2 large mugs of coffee. Changed days indeed: I only wish I could say the same thing about my shape.

With the rain still beating incessantly on to the patio, I'm looking forward to the weekly visit from my friend o m t's: such a shame she'll get a soaking in the coming.
I'm afraid she's drawn the short straw this week.