Shortly after lift off, the plane banks sharply, pinwheeling south to north. The large Glaswegian lassie sitting next to me takes the opportunity of the shift in gravity to lean over and ask me if I want to shag in the toilets. My ears are popping and the air conditioning is blasting. I'm not sure I've heard correctly. I say 'excuse me' and she repeats the question, slurring her words a bit more this time. I politely decline. She nods and smiles then nods off.
I had seen her with her pals, who looked like they had just had a heavy week in Tenerife or Ibizia, outside of security. Near the entrance there was a pile of discarded bottles and cans which people realised they couldn't take through, including a full Fosters. 'Gie's tha can, girls,' she said, downing it in a few greedy gulps. My kind of woman.
Outside Edinburgh airport, it is raining and cold and it feels so refreshing. My journey to Stansted began with getting stuck on the Central line just before Liverpool Street for about 15 sweaty and suffocating minutes.
In central Edinburgh, the festival is in full swing. My friends are talking about how busy town is, but I just smile - it is far less busy than even the most sedate days in the West End. Late at night, I look out of my room at my friend's flat, listening to the cars clumping over the cobblestones, watching the swollen Water of Leith rush by, the river lit by the yellow street lamps. There is only one brewery left inside the city - but you can still smell the malt and hops when the wind is right, like tonight - and it smells like home.
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