Living in the Capital you have to make peace with the fact it is the perfect destination for a city break.
As the weekend rolls around, the next rotation of tourists arrive to reek havoc on Auld Reekie.
I’ve never really minded sharing the sights with our guests, because I’m proud our city has such pulling power.
But there is a group of tourists I’m not so keen on.
They are the stag and hens – also known as style-starved, uncouth morons.
For the past decade I’ve watched these social pariahs make a mockery of an ancient tradition, pushing pubs, clubs and cabs to place signs in windows banning their entry.
Every time I pass a gaggle of clucking hens I make a mental note it will never be me.
Now I stand six weeks away from my own nuptials and my girlfriends are relentless about doing something before my big day.
I’m at a cross road – to hen or not to hen? That is the question.
Now I’m not one to knock back a good old knees-up, but the thought of wearing synthetic fabrics with pinned-on learner plates is enough to bring me out in bird flu.
I might just elope.