Thursday, 7 August 2008

Getting Tattooed

Despite the dogged determination of certain folks to cling to weather stereotypes (note, certain folks who have never actually ever been to Scotland… y’all know who you are!), it doesn’t rain all that much in Edinburgh. The city is an ecosystem unto itself and its weather will often behave in ways completely contrary to what is happening outside the boundaries of the city bypass.

Rain is a sporadic visitor, usually arriving seemingly spontaneously and unannounced – the brilliant blue sky clouds over in about thirty seconds flat, followed by a deluge that lasts for about ten minutes maximum. Thirty seconds after that and all signs of rain are gone, leaving one standing under one’s umbrella beneath the sky that is once again a brilliant blue, nonchalantly trying to convince passers-by that South Africans actually use umbrellas in the sun. For shade. Duh.

It is very rare that rain settles in, makes itself at home and stays long enough to establish squatting rights. In fact, in Alien Wally and Mags’ year and a half here, they hadn’t yet encountered such persistence of wetness. Until now. Until the day on which Alien Wally and Mags went to see the Tattoo. Since tickets were booked last year sometime, the rain had plenty of advance warning to replenish stocks and prepare for The Wetting.

But… let’s not talk about the rain any more, shall we? Let’s turn our attention to the Tattoo instead. So, how was the Tattoo? It was wet spectacular. It was wet colourful. It was wet rousing. All the regiments taking part were wet brilliantly choreographed, although the Norwegian King’s Guard were probably the wettest best performance of the night. The audience was wet supportive. The audience was wet in good spirits. The audience swallowed rain water by the bucket load cheered and clapped loudly.

Lesser people than Alien Wally and Mags left early. Wimps. The many Scots in the audience stayed till the bitter end, as did Alien Wally and Mags with their Scottish heritage. There are many things that can be said about the Scots and their taste in music, but the only one suitable for polite company is that they shall endure. E’en tho’ the rain may fall, and trickle into places unmentionable. Yea, e’en as the Royal Mile turns into a river, and sodden clothes add a few kilograms to the weight that cold numb feet are dragging back home, they shall endure.

Their cats, on the other hand, know when to stay home under the duvet cover.

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