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The matchbox room

I love my home here. Every day, to get to work, to a chai latte, to anything worth going to, I walk between golden trees down through the Meadows: sometimes frosty, sometimes hidden underneath fallen leaves, but constantly populated by a dog or so. My building is not lovely but it has the advantage of being the only ugly moment in a sea of quaint tenement blocks; I look out the window and only see beautiful things. The tree that takes the view has gone from green to ochre in the meantime.

Everything in my room has a memory. The little house with the red roof from the store in the town by the bridge on the £20 note; the woman there called a taxi for me. And there are the postcards of the Alps on the wall, from Glasgow of all places; I look at them and I see Izzy and I at a frightening market, in the rain, smiling through literal translations of French well-wishes. The red pen I envied that Henny left in my blazer pocket the day she went home to Germany.

Edinburgh, as a city, suits my situation but doesn't really suit me. Still, I'm glad to pen it under Melbourne and London, and above Sydney and the empty space I hope to fill. Scotland, even the Lowlands, is a wild place populated by a fiercely proud people. I'm glad to have called it home; I look forward to the Edinburgh of my memories.



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