You see it all from – or on – Edinburgh’s buses:
Rabbits reclining, guilt-free, on the bowling green they’ve pitted with holes.
The daily white van at Edinburgh Castle, prompting images of a used-car salesman trying to flog the Queen a Ford Capri (even though she never stays there).
The woman, mid-lockdown, muttering ‘gypsies, send them back,’ as a travelling family board and she sits, maskless, on the seat marked ‘Do Not Use’.
The neighbouring estate agent and plumbing firm who I always mistake for Mr. Spock’s property business.
The Duke of Wellington pointing the way to victory while the seagull on his head looks in the opposite direction.
I’ve considered driving lessons for decades. But then, what would I write about?