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Dreamy/deathly

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It snowed twice. By the end of autumn we would stand around the hot cabinets at work and warm our hands, and my co-workers (Polish, jaded) would insist on sleet and hail. They said that when it did come — in January at least — it would alarm the population and the supermarkets would sell out of salt. This was hilarious, apparently, and I laughed as hard as the desert and the ocean and the rainforest can. Then I walked to the bank and came back with white hair and refused to work because it was a Snow Day. It lasted for about fifteen minutes in vague, thrilling flurries. And when I walked home, a week later, it was already too dark but it caught in the beam of a streetlamp and I stood and watched it until my feet lost feeling.

Hindsight is wonderful because it makes me miss Edinburgh. I remember the golden post-box and the cold and that Starbucks wasn’t really dreadful, and how all the short-cuts led somehow to the bank. I think I miss it. Familiarity fades and so do my memories of the horrible things that happened: the sexist boss, the boredom, the 34p pasta I lived off. Instead I remember how strange and lonely and wonderful it looked in the small hours, and how once we walked for miles from a weird, sad party, and I met a pretty cat and got lost in the dark. Edinburgh is magical at night.

Do you remember cresting the hill and seeing the little bud-lights of the Christmas market spread beneath you? Do you remember when everybody came to visit and slept in your tiny bed with the broken springs? Do you remember learning and forgetting the dance from Bande à part in the kitchen at work?

And the memories I documented, carefully: the beautiful Meadows (where I walked home, pale with exhaustion), and the sweetheart dog of my flatmate (who coated my life in clinging white hair), and a dreamy bob (that drove me crazy). So, nostalgia. 

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