As I leave the station, coffee in hand, the smell of yeast seeps through the traffic fumes of the clogged up arteries in the centre. It's not an instantly recognisable smell, nor a particularly overpowering one, but it's always there, warming and slightly sweet, catching a breeze from the breweries on the outskirts before coming to rest over the centre.

I head for the taxi queue, but immediately decide to walk. It's huge, filled with t-shirts and hoodies emblazoned with hen party slogans. Poor "Mother in Law" taking part in "Peachy’s Hen Do!" looks a little sheepish, attempting to hide her pink cowboy hat and sparkly feather boa inside a beautiful Mulberry handbag.

She'd prefer an evening at The Balmoral, I think as I walk past the grand hotel on the corner, a reminder of the old glamour of Scotland's capital. There are still smoking rooms on the first floor for the regulars. The doorman in tails bows to one such regular, opening the gold and glass doors with a spotless white glove before good-naturedly posing for a photo with a group of Japanese tourists.

Turning the corner onto the Bridges, I tuck my head down against the oncoming wind. The people coming towards me look like they're being shoved and bullied by a burly security guard; an immaculate, blond lady in a red coat is fighting with all her might to walk at her intended and preferred pace. It’s a fruitless task.

Further up the Bridges, away from the shelter of The Balmoral, Edinburgh’s homeless are settling in for the night. A girl not much older than me is sitting curled up in a ball, her face buried in the neck of a grubby, oversized fleece; her eyes are wide and vacant. I smile, bend down and offer her my coffee. I should say something, anything, but I don’t know where to begin.

"I didn't even like coffee 3 months ago," she says, taking the cup with both hands, "but, ta, it keeps ma wee hands warm."

The first spots of rain drop ominously onto the pavement. The girl pulls a ragged blanket tightly around her as tourists run for the cover of a tartan shop, and every suit whips out a golf umbrella. Convinced I can beat this storm, I put up my umbrella, hold it down on both sides and run up the street towards my flat. I’m almost there when, predictably, the wind takes it, spokes flailing and material flapping as the rain pours down the back of my neck. 

"Umbrella's no use in Edinburgh, love," says the owner of the delicatessen next door, smiling as he pulls down the shutter, "thought you'd have worked that out by now."