No. 10 Luckenbooth Close is arthritic. It creaks often. Groans wretchedly when it rains. Its elbows are knobby. Knees buckled. It is old. How old, nobody on the street seems to know for sure. It’s not as old as Moubray House (1477). St Margaret’s Chapel up at the castle sashays by at 1130. John Knox sniffs at them all regardless (1490). St Giles’ Cathedral (central pillars, 1124 – the rest of it is – complicated). The dark wee close leading down to No. 10 Luckenbooth – has been here as long as any of them. Nobody sees it. No matter how many times they walk by. It’s unseen. As she is. It doesn’t belong either. It’s an ootlin. Dot has been an outsider in every scene she’s found herself in. It’s not like she hasn’t tried at times to reach out to those who seemed like her own. Artists and writers are everywhere in this city, though. So confident! Most of them have totally different backgrounds from her. Although they all shout loud and some pretend to be from rougher places – they are not. Big personalities! All style, no content. Clanging their own fucking bells all day long, all year long, all their lives. It’s tiring. There is little art in endless self-promotion. Every stage is their place to shine. They’d steal your heart, soul or story and pretend it was theirs to begin with and they won’t even see how wrong it is to do so. They gossip that anyone who isn’t like them is just – mean. Dot spent an unpleasant year around people like that at art school – and dropped out as soon as she possibly could.

It was a vile place.

It made her feel even more dot-like than ever.

The arts! Middle-class kids are raised to own a space. Keep others from infringing on it. And they are very successful at it. Edinburgh – makes a show of herself on that point – at every possible opportunity. Siphons money from punters. Keeps her truth-tellers under the vaults. As if they are diseased. There are gatekeepers who hold the arts hostage. They bang their drums and say: this is our space – we own all of it! They say – culture belongs to people like me. I let people like me through and they have to thank me for it. They say don’t you dare make us uncomfortable or we will close ranks like flying monkeys.

Dot is not about owning anything at all.

Not a moment.

Seconds come and then you let them go like pretty balloons – that’s how it is meant to be.

Dot puts her hand through her letter box and turns the latch.

Goes into her hall.

Hangs up her coat, glad to be home.