Bad white wine does not go with ice cream. That is an absolute truth. I should know better, really, being a born again wine merchant. I should have finished my glass of white and scrounged for something more appropriate, a whisky, or a PX, or something suitably ice cream-friendly. The thing is, it doesn't really matter. Sometimes you just drink and eat what you like regardless. If that means I get booted from the hallowed halls of wine snobbery, so be it.
Speaking of ice cream, does anyone else out there like to eat it with a teaspoon, just to make it last longer? Because I do. I love it. That's another truth, every bit as absolute.
I've moved four miles closer to Edinburgh. Still just outside Linlithgow, but it's the other side that I'm just outside of. It's still the country, but different. There's a cockerel that makes a racket, not just at sun-up, but whenever he feels like it. There's an abundance of home-grown vegetables kicking about. There's a stray cat named Trailer Trash Tom. The sunshine yellow walls boast the remains of hippy home-school geography lessons, with a technicolour atlas of questionable borders. I keep the Raeburn topped up to keep the cottage warm. I sleep in a loft bed carved from a tree. My hosts call it the treehouse. I call it the belfry.
Flat, agent & job hunting continue apace.