A trip to Edinburgh to see, among other things, the Museum of Childhood at the bottom of the Royal Mile.
Our motivation for visiting is a roundabout one. We’re having our wills written up soon and we’re looking for somewhere to bequeath my Teddy Bear and Samara’s stuffed toy dog. I know this is sentimental but I can’t stand the thought of them going into a big burning bin as if they weren’t treasured for a lifetime. Apparently some people are buried with their teddy bears, which also strikes me as sad. You might be dead but the bear isn’t. And now he has to live underground with his now-aged boy or girl decomposing on him. I can’t help wanting to do better than that.
The museum was okay but not exactly the festival of fun and nostalgia I assumed it would be. Parts of it were quite dull and each dim room is connected by undecorated stairwells with little sense of continuity. Strange. I took this photograph and I now worry that my iPhone is haunted:
