I found Polish Pretend Son in the sitting-room, eating full-fat Polish cheese for breakfast. He looked very much like my Polish Pretend Son, for he hadn't glued his hair down yet. We have a lot of hair in my family. If he eschewed the hair gel permanently, he could pass as one of us.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked.
"I slept okay," said Polish Pretend Son. "How did you sleep?"
Actually, I had just woken up from a terrible dream in which I had gotten out of bed and taken a bus to central Edinburgh to go the gym but changed my mind and went to a very expensive French patisserie instead. And just as I had changed my mind about buying almond croissants, I heard someone calling my name. So I looked, and lo, it was one of the Mean Girls from high school. The Mean Girls were rather less mean to me than to my friends, mind you. However, in my dream they made up for it in mid-life. Before I knew it I was surrounded by middle-aged Mean Girls, all slim, well-dressed and haughty, except for the one who was eight months pregnant. She was just well-dressed and haughty and needing to impress upon me how much more fabulous her life was than mine.
"We didn't like your book," said one of the non-pregnant Mean Girls.
"But I don't think anyone has it yet," I said to confuse her. It worked. She looked confused.
"Your Single book," she said. "I thought that part about that girl was stupid."
And they all murmured assent and looked at me avidly in that way girls look when another girl is being bullied.
"You can't bully me!" I cried. "I don't have to put up with this! I live in a seventeenth-century mansion!"
Of course, I don't own the mansion, and live in the attic, and it was built on so much by 1740 that it is rather more eighteenth-century than seventeenth, but I didn't think it necessary to mention this. Instead I fled the expensive French patisserie and its Mean Girl Tourists/High School Alumnae.
"I think you have already your blog post today," said Polish Pretend Son.
Update: Now I have put also Polish Pretend Son on the bus to catch his train for London. I'm reasonably sure this is an activity common to many real, Scottish, mothers, too. Look, look! I'm assimilating into Scottish society!