Victoria Street.

I took Jnr to the station this morning at silly o’clock so that he can start a new job in Manchester on Monday, though it seemed unlikely that said job existed until the last minute due to employment agencies behaving in a most unprofessional manner. He’ll be working as a contractor in a financial call centre up until Christmas, so it should pay well; and being in a new town, to him, the bookies won’t know of the reputation he gained in either in Nottingham of Glasgow so he will be able to take them to the cleaners. Being something of an expert in statistics, he, and several of his internet friends, know how to work the system. The bubble bursts when the bookies twig that he is, for all intents and purposes, a professional gambler and refuse his custom; it gives me a certain amount of pleasure that the purveyors of addiction to those mortals that way inclined should pay for the privilege by providing our little boy with a modest, but significant, income which pays for his board and lodging while away from our tender care.
 
The blip, taken before returning home from my errand, as every Edinburgher will recognise, is Victoria Street, home of a motley bunch of curious shops. It is quite attractive at night, though getting the white balance right in a photograph is a bit of a nightmare. It is my ambition to chance upon it on a day when no bins will be collected, no building work necessitating the erection of scaffolding, no Christmas decorations, parked cars or council sponsored graffiti on litter bins but, at the same time, there is a little light drizzle to give a nice sheen to the cobbles. It’s not too much to ask, is it?