The plumbing escapades at Mawdley House continue. Please read ahead for another edition of "Bang! Kapow! Hannah's life in London"

So, since we last spoke, my faithful readers, great progress has been made at Flat 16. Water has returned gushing forth from the faucets like gold. It had been four days without running water. The water didn't run. It didn't even walk, the lazy bastard. It just stagnated. But finally that precious mix of hydrogen and oxygen came back, the planets aligned and peace on earth was obtained if only for a fleeting second.

More exciting news: Our toilet, it flushes! Yes, its true. Please hold your applause. Oh its a giddy experience. I push. Whoosh. Water springs forth from the tank like a lion from tall jungle grasses. I laugh in a distorted little chuckle that much resembles the chef in the Little Mermaid. Haw haw haw!

"Dear lord," you must be thinking, "London has really addled Hannah's brain more than scrambled eggs." Maybe so, but not in this case. Previous to Friday, flushing the toilet in my flat had been an athletic activity. I'd don my sweatbands, get in good Tai Chi pose and attack the handle fervently. Pump, pump, pump as I might the flush would not occur. One had to be the toilet whisperer (think a la Robert Redford with horses) to flush the damn thing. Anyone who has been to my flat can sympathize. It had only been getting worse and worse like a bad joke, until finally one dark and stormy night the landlord gave into our gripes and fixed the toilet. It now flushes like a charm (a Lucky Charm, perhaps the one that looks like a rainbow). So what was the problem? From the toilet, the landlord extracted the following: one pen and two razors. One pen, two razors, three milking maids, four bowling pins, five phonographs, six velocipedes, seven very disgruntled roosters, eight silver dubloons, nine brass monkeys and ten replicas of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. What in Sherlock Holmes' name that was all doing in there is beyond the realm of my infinite wisdom. All I know is that the toilet flushes.

Anyhow, I'm sure I could babble on about plumbing all night, but let's chat about other things, eh? New Years, for example.

To celebrate the new year, my sister, who was visiting, and I went up to Edinburgh. Everyone told me that the city was built on rock and roll by Starship. They said that, but they also said that Alexander Hamilton was a scientologist, so I don't know if I believe them. What I did gather from word of truthful mouth was that Edinburgh was the place to be for New Years.

Tess and I arrived before dawn stretched out her gleaming fingers over the city. The night bus we took deposited us on top of a mass of kilt-wearing lads, but we managed to fight our way out and into city center. We found the house where we were couchsurfing, deposited out surfboards and began our adventure.

What a lovely time. What a lovely city. What a lovely bunch of coconuts!

Over the next few days we explored the city in a leisurely fashion. I polished my monocole, crooning "Aha! what fabulous architecture!" and Tess smaked her walking stick on the ground, agreeing, "Superb. Absolutely devine." We ate a scone. It was more buttery goodness than a baker's fridge. We sought out Dolly the sheep and had a fatuous conversation with her concerning the delights of sharing a strawberry-rhubarb pie with your genetic likeness. We learned about Scottish history. We sang. We drank infinite amounts of tea. We ate delicious Indian curry that was graciously shared with us by our hosts.

Then, there were the New Years celebrations. They opened on the 29th with a torchlight procession. We bought a torch to share, passing it around like a hot potato. We processed around town, professing about the glory of the event. As our torch burned down to a warm glow that lit up the tips of our noses like steam off a hot cup of camomille, we reached the end of the walk and fireworks burst up into the sky like so many flecks of silver.

The night of the 30th, it was time to get your groove on. Performers hopped and swayed around stage like wheat in the wind. Bollywood, tango, Scottish country dancing. They had it all. The best of it was the traditional Scottish caleigh dancing in which the crowd took part. Did I dance? Is my name Hannah? No need for such obvious questions.

New Years itself was a rollicking mass of convivial fun. There was nothing more than people and music, but everyone was in spirits higher than Everest (many in such a jolly mood likely thanks to other spirits). This overwhelming sense of collective effervensence shot through the crowd like electrostatic waves. (I don't care if that's physically logical.) Midnight came. More fireworks streamed forth and the strains of auld lang syne rippled through the streets like water.

Now that I'm back in London, things are back in their swing. The swing, however, has been agitated from the smooth rock of its normalacy by the weight of "where to go next?" It's that time - time to start finding a real job. I have found a prospectus that is incredibly interesting (and by that I mean it's better sounding than notes gurgling forth from the lyre of Orpheus). I will not go into details now, but it's holding me in suspenseful semi-agony this weekend due to the logistics of possibly scheduling a face-to-face meet-up in NYC. No, I won't divulge more details. It's so deliciously cruel of me isn't it?

On that 'oh so clandestinely curious' note, I leave you be. Stay tuned for the next adventure.