Have you nowt better to do of an afternoon than watch Flog It?, I’m asked. In a word – no. Not every afternoon, understand.
Like the other afternoon when, having watched the kettle boil for sheer excitement (don’t laugh, lads, it will happen to you), I tuned in to Flog It, the NHS’s answer to paracetamol.
This particular edition (now, don’t panic, another will be along in a minute, just like an Edinburgh bus) was hosted by Whispering Paul Martin.
A piece of paper caught my eye, possibly it meant little to the aforesaid Martin but, by God, it was a genuine scrap from a Glenn Miller score but infinitely more exciting had it been Miller’s trombone.
Imagine, the great Glenn’s trombone! Which would have coaxed a tenner bid from yours truly.
I used to play Miller’s Moonlight Serenade on our wind-up gramophone. I come off a musical family.
My father, who had drums in his ears, was a conductor (stop me if I’ve told you before) on the 12s, a regular service between Corstorphine and Porty.
And I was beginning to think I was the solitary girn around town, until I saw Sir Malcolm Rifkind, above, doing a huge moody the other day, moaning about some alleged undercover reporting by a national paper. Fuming, so he was.
I never like to see Malky in one of his moods. I’m told I’m capable of throwing a pretty impressive hissy fit myself.
Let wind gang free
I’d never heard it before, until a former RAF navigator on the anniversary of VJ Day helped complete my education: “The wind is like an umbrella. It works better if it’s open.”