@Inkedprofesoringles

Here’s me, mastering the art of extreme sedentary activity, which is just a posh Morningside way of saying I’m glued to my sofa doing sweet F.A. It sneaks up like an Edinburgh haar, smothering me before I’ve even noticed. I don’t lift a finger until I’m neck-deep in a crisis so grim it’d make the Fringe’s worst comedian seem uplifting. Social exclusion and an apathy that could out-bore a Castle tour guide? That’s my personal purgatory, and I’m a VIP. My Edinburgh-bred grit—call it *tenacity* if you’re feeling fancy—is about as useful as a tram ticket during a festival shutdown. By the time I twig what’s happening, the dark dog of depression’s been skulking about for weeks, and I’ve neglected myself so thoroughly I could headline a tragedy at the Traverse. Here’s the kicker: I *know* hauling myself up and tackling the absolute bin fire that is my life sparks improvement. Thirty odd years of this nonsense—I’m practically a PhD in misery. Am I sharp enough to act early, like a proper Edin...