The vast blue sky that stretches across the capital: untainted, except for pale whispers of smoke-like clouds suspended above. Its loveliness cranes the necks of passers-by.
Sunrays that reflect and cast shadows upon the soft stone of old Edinburgh tenements. The way they bend around the bay windows and creep up the flat’s facade.
The brass surface of the bench where you sit: its radiance stained by the faint, circular cup marks of those who sat before you.
A father and daughter bonding over lunch, heads bent together in a not-so-secret strategy meeting for her campaign to become Head Girl. Their closeness – fist bumps, shared laughter, the easy rhythm of their conversation. The ludicrously large lump of butter on his slice of bread ready to be submerged in soup.
The group of older women sat at the table next to yours, discussing the physical changes they know are coming. They renounce surgery and treatments in favour of fighting to keep their expressions – the marks that hold stories that cannot be told with words alone.
You shift your gaze across the street to see a runner in his all black armour, bravely tackling the uphill stretch of Morningside Road. The staccato pumping of his arms makes him pass like a stop motion.
A boisterous dachshund stops to take a whiff of every leg, lamppost, letterbox, and it passes.
A leopard print fur headband and matching headscarf adorned by an older lady, her dolly trolley in tow, bound for Waitrose.
Another dachshund.
The tantalising “ooooooft” pictured on the Tennents delivery van that flies past and has you wishing you could exchange this flat white for a cold pint.
A third dachshund. (Seriously, does every person in Morningside own a dachshund?)
The cherry red Ford, possibly on its way into town from the Pentlands – the only car dressed with snow atop its roof.
When you arrived, the place was bustling with strangers – not a seat to spare.
Now the room is filled with stories and snippets of lives that would have otherwise gone unnoticed.
