Bug Unit

This week has been a week like any other, except for one piece of bad news: we are getting kicked out of the Rigg. The Rigg is the place where we live, for those of you who Googled Rigg looking for stuff about oil (you also may have spelling issues)- and our landlord has decided that it is costing him too much money. Woe! Woe, woe woe!! We love the Rigg. It has a jaunty little garden and a river and a park, and a playground that comes in useful for realising important facts, like the fact that adults have legs that are to long for sitting on one of those wiggly round-about things, and also, a 2m slide is not what it used to be, excitement wise. The Rigg also has big sunny windows and some fresh basil growing in the kitchen, and basically, it is home. We don’t want to leave it, but we must. So now the process of web surfing, house visiting and decision making must begin. The bugger of it all is that you can’t simply sign up with an estate agent, because they want to charge you around £60 for the service of taking you to properties. However, if you find the properties on the internet, phone them up, ask to view them, and meet them at the door of the property, they don’t charge you anything. Wierd, but convenient, because let’s face it- we’re internet people. Web 3.0 and all that.
So we are looking for places, and we are hoping to find something worth about £1,5 million, owned by someone who needs a tax break on a very expensive property. Failing that, we might have to look in our own price range, but hey! All will be well.

I don’t , as a rule, hold with the idea of coming all the way over the sea (or over the land, technically, for those of us from Africa) and then proceeding to hang out day in and day out with the people you knew at home. However, this sensibility obviously has a flaw, in that Kyle is my built in South African buddy, so really, I am being a bit of a hypocrite. But anyway- my point being, we broke the rule a bit last night and went to a party thrown by Warrick Bus Guy. We met Warrick Bus Guy on the bus waiting to go to Canonmills. We asked him when the next bus arrived, he answered in an all too similar accent, and the next thing we knew we were singing Nkosi Sikelele Africa to a bus full of bemused passangers. Since then Warrick Bus Guy has been very good about inviting us to a couple of his parties, and we have, for a bizarre range of reasons, been unable to attend any. To his credit, he kept inviting us and last night we went to a masked party where the punch was lethal but the people were nice. We chatted to a range of Poles, Scots, Aussies and South Africans and generally had an amazing time. Then we came home and ate pistachios.
That’s what you call a good evening.