Can I call ya Eddie?

This Saturday I'm going to join the sweaty masses on the train to Edinburgh, but not solely for the reasons you might think. My visit there was organised weeks ago (in-principle anyway), to rendez-vous with Daz & Jaime, whose UK junket will conclude with a visit to the Old Town.

I've been to the Body Shop and bought my wrist band thingy, and I'm going to show my support to the Sir Bob and his marauding hordes. But given that I'm only going to be in Ed for one full day, I think I'm going to have to be a party pooper and forgo the protest itself. As it is, I get the sneaking suspicion that I will freak out with the city crowds and the furthest I am away from them, while still within the City limits, the better.

The 2 July protest is getting a lot of coverage at my work, because the University's Honorary Professor has taken time out of his professional life to help get "Make Poverty History" organised in Scotland. Morning teas have been convened, costumes coordinated, and cash donations taken.

In fact, my impending train trip generated a bit of interest, with many believing me to be a foreign activist of some kind (or at the very least somewhat noble), but the peer admiration quickly dissipated when I fessed up.

After all, the white band is no excuse for a white lie.