Only in my dreams

Although Edinburgh's morning was sunny and bright, it was very cold, dear reader. My daughters and I went up to the fallen down tree and then, sans hat, decided to turn back. I promised them a proper walk after lunch, once my body had thawed out.



Lunch, oatcakes and sandwich spread soon came and went. With a coffee in my belly and a hat on my head, Minge headed off for Mortonhall. There's a beautiful wee house called Morton Hall (how the area got its name) not a fifteen minute walk from where I live now and, spookily, about a fifteen minute walk from where I used to live in Mortonhall Park Crescent.



We met some Highland Cattle on the way. I'd hoped that we would as I'd taken my camera with me to take the very picture, above, having promised Anjou Wu I'd do so well over a week ago. Perhaps a fortnight. Better late than never, dear reader.



I wanted to also take a snap of Megan and Mary with those ginger dears. I managed it, though getting the pups to look at the camera was a task. I think they were a bit nervy, baby.



They needn't worry, of course. If only I could tell them that. I can't speak for all Highland Cattle, of course, but these are very placid. They'll let you stroke them, feel their horns and, if you're lucky, will lick you. Be warned though, dear reader, their tongues are rough! Cats' tongues are smooth in comparison!



It was time to say, "Tata!" to the darling cow, the curious one, the one smelling quite strongly of lawnmowers.



From the field, the dogs and I walked on along the edge of the crematorium heading to the block of flats where we used to live. Meg got very excited, still able to remember the way.

When we lived around there, we woke up once or twice to find ash on the windscreen of the car and on the roof. There was often a strong smell of paraffin, buring etc.



In only a few minutes, we were there. Meg did her usual trick or party piece and ran all around the block several times.

Have a look where I used to live, dear reader. It was a very modest dwelling, but I did love it there. We were very comfortable. My former living room window now has red curtains at it. Can you see? Practically in the centre of the picture. The window to the left was my bedroom.

An old woman called Mrs Stewart lived below us. She must be long dead, now, having been on her last legs when we still lived there. Next door to her was Miss McKendrick. She was a fabulously outrageous old lesbian. I quite liked her. Sadly, she never knew who I was, being unable to recognise my voice through being so deaf and unable to recognise my face due to her poor eyesight. Mr Smith lived two floors above McKendrick. He'd not decorated his flat in the whole time we lived there with bare walls and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Practically below him and opposite me, lived Mrs Brown. She was a terrible old gossip, but quite harmless. We'd often meet at the washing lines and she'd natter to me. I once told her I'd been to Bournemouth, she replied saying she'd been to London. I then said we'd been to Italy. She said she'd been to Florida. I was afraid to tell her we'd been to Saint Lucia. I thought she was going to tell me she'd been to the fucking moon! If you had a headache, dear reader, she had a brain tumour. If you had heartburn, she was having a heart attack. It was fun living there. She was always having huge rows with the people who lived above her. They wound each other up the whole time. I'd spend hours stood my my front door listening to their arguments, almost in hysterics.



From the flats, we headed off back home, along the way we came. I was certainly not prepared for what came next, for who came next! It was The Baldy Man! I'd not seen him in years. He was always walking about the place and I'd often see him passing my window (usually to go down the offy, Scotmid or the Chinky) so I really should not have been surprised to see him. I'd have asked to take his photograph, but he'd have thought me a total freak, so I had to do so from the rear once he'd passed. He was dubbed The Baldy Man after we'd seen him once or twice and admired his crazy hair-style: bald as an egg on the top, long hair at the back and sides. I thought he was quite similar to the character from Naked Video, the guy with the comb-over. Click here to see his infamous Hamlet commercial.



Back through the field with the Highland Cattle. "Hello, Mr Cow!" I patted his head, stroked his back and carried on, on along the strange route Ian likes, the route which fills me with fear. I have no sense of direction and was sure I'd get lost, which I did. A few telephone calls later, asking for directions, we were back home, back in the warm.

I'd had my iPod with me the whole time. The last track I heard was Only In My Dreams by Debbie Gibson. You can download it, if you like, dear reader. Click here. Go on, you know you want to. Be quick though, one hundred downloads or seven days, whichever come soonest, and it's gone.