I should perhaps give you a little bit of background information. I embarked on exchange after two beautiful years in bonnie Scotland, the second of which was spent inhabiting a place that my old flatmates and I fondly like to call The Asylum.
The Asylum was owned by a Mrs Gyftouklas who was otherwise preoccupied in Greece; it was large and unclean and filled with mice. There were noodles stuck to the kitchen ceiling but we turned it into the culinary capital of Edinburgh. It oozed garlic. A broken, persistently beeping fire alarm lived in our dead tumble dryer. In the mornings, a giraffe head would bob past our living room window as a man in fancy dress went on his way to the Meadows. There, he’d set up a table with a sign inviting passersby to “tea with a friendly giraffe”. It was a beautiful existence.
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