Experimental piles of festering rubbish act as temporary art installations and health hazards all across the city. Nobody understands their real meaning, not even the vacuous art critics or the numerous rats. It's as if the refuse workers had said to the Council "go fuck yourselves and all your conflicted priorities", and who could disagree? As a social comment, the position of trash in the world of consumer crap and over indulgence needs to be explored. In the background is the old North British Hotel, a bastion of upper class and warped colonial values that dominates the skyline. Long may it do so.
In a strange green space by the Royal Mile's artistic quarter some badly laid astro-turf gets absorbed by real grass and creeping weeds. A welcome if hidden spectacle that confirms my view that nature will eventually win the war against those stupid humans.
What's not to like about an old Citroen van converted into a well mannered coffee shop at the (badly located and poorly set out) Book Festival?
The famous Waverley Station from a safe and socially distanced distance. Clogged with tourists, travelers and other people who don't know their left from their right. Avoid at all costs unless you need to catch a train or take a short cut.
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