The Housesit Dispatch #2

A month in Edinburgh: writing, sleepless nights, and a new season

As a child, I never slept. Each night, I’d creep into my parents' room and stand over my mum’s side of the bed like a creepy Victorian ghoul until she sensed me there, jumped out of her skin, and tucked me back into bed.

I now know how that feels.

Because at 4:30 a.m., the sound of a tail swishing on the carpet jolts me from my slumber. It's Crunchie by the side of the bed, whimpering to be let outside to relieve herself. It’s not her fault she doesn’t have opposable thumbs or the ability to operate keys and a lock, but God. Neither of us is sleeping well. And we’re here for a month.

Mum — I’m sorry.