The Parents always said that they wouldn’t have a family (and by family I mean me) until they had a garden. To put this in context, home is a top floor flat in the centre of Edinburgh. You just don’t have a canine in a top floor flat, and certainly not one that needs to be carried (Ed: lugged) up and down the stairs five times a day (Ed: I think you’ll find it’s six if you count). There’s nothing sensible about that.
But then, life doesn’t always go to plan. Garden flats don’t just turn up out the blue, it seems. They need to be paid for. So here we are, embracing upper level living, while I dream of a garden. I lie at the kitchen window, inhaling the surrounding gardens.
By the way, like
Mum’s my cushion? So do I – it perfectly co-ordinates with my dark brindle coat, and we all know the importance of co-ordination. This was designed and made by Rosie Brown of Papa Stour, and was one of my Dad’s first presents to my Mum after they met. I probably should feel slightly guilty about lying on it now, shouldn’t I, but then it is Harris Tweed.