Edinburgh doesn’t seem all that keen on streetlights; its attitude, apparently, is that if you don’t know where you’re going, that’s your problem. Oh, and if you fall in the canal because we haven’t put any railings round the edges, don’t come crying to us. It’s not a city for wimps.
I remember seeing the red taillight of the bike fading into the dark. It sounds really romantic put like that, doesn’t it? But what I’m learning, the very hard way, is that things that sound romantic in books or films are often horrendously painful in real life. And not pretty or rose-tinted at all.
Feeling so weak, fainting … it’s like something out of a Charlotte Bronte novel. We’re doing Villette for English A-level, and the heroine spends half her time thinking she’s hallucinating visions of a nun who was murdered for having an affair, or wandering through the town completely spaced out after the villainess has drugged her with opium.
As you can tell even from that short summary, it’s a brilliant book. A bit mad, but completely brilliant.