Right before Christmas, I moved into the first apartment of my own, at 37 years old. After limping spectacularly out of my marriage, which is another story altogether, one of the few pieces of the future I found truly exciting was the piece in which I would finally have my very own place. I had lived with roommates, a boyfriend, roommates again, and then finally the boyfriend who became my husband. But although the compromises of living with other people always drove . . .

We used to have a Sunday ritual where we'd board the first bus heading south from Edinburgh, regardless of its destination. It was important to get the right seats—front row/top deck, of course—as from there we could survey our options until a particular suburban street tickled our fancy to ding the bell and disembark. We'd then scavenge the streets like truffle pigs for life's small pleasures: cantankerous pubs with whisky discounts for OAPs; stretches of . . .