I'm not an English Yah

George Square Hullabaloo beer garden

So, Edinburgh then.

Let's take a look at the facts:

Men in kilts seen: 5 (only one was anything approaching hot, boo!)

Tartan bus seats: Multiple

Displays of irn bru, haggis and flat sausage: 1

Irn bru adverts seen on tv: Multiple

Gin drunk: Too much

Bottles of wine drunk: 3 and a bit

Cider consumed in beer gardens: 2 pints

Bloggers met: 1

I think that sums it up pretty well. Miss Smidge and I drank, laughed and pretty much never stopped talking in the two days I spent in Edinburgh. I squealed with delight whenever I saw a tartan bus seat, wanted to punch most of the English people we happened upon ("Yah, yah, yah!", "I'm doing the festival daaaahling") and marvelled at the shortness and general aesthetic wonderfullness of Scottish men. I heart short men.

Now I'm back in the real world where my Dad has to deal with the poison coursing through his body. He's remarkably chipper actually, aside from suffering from constant hiccups. One of the side effects of the anti nausea drugs, apparently. Poor bloke. I despise hiccups. One of the most irritating afflictions known to man. Still, in the battle of hiccups vs cancer, I think cancer has the edge.

So, hiccups, if you're a necessary part of the process that's going to heal my Dad, feel free to carry on...