I’ve never been on one. Yet. Every chance you’re saying neither have I. And I, like most, am in no great hurry to board one. If you’ve not already guessed, it’s Edinburgh’s trams I’m chuntering about.
Again probably like me, on viewing them actually rolling along the Capital’s city centre streets, you’re thinking to yourself who in hell designed them? For sure, not a 21st century Spitfire draughtsman.
No way will they pick up any design awards. Gross, bulky-looking objects that do damn all to enhance Edinburgh’s transport network which was chugging along in its own way – admired, envied and financially viable – as it was.
To Lesley Hinds, Edinburgh’s transport convener, convinced the trams are her babies, I have this to say on behalf of the city’s average traumatised citizenry: mind your back. Whatever you do, to be safe catch a bus.
Cold feet. Whisper it – and not a word to the consistently bungling Ministry of Defence – when the troops, enlisted from the ranks, eventually turned up at the Somerset Levels or thereabouts to help with the sandbags they couldn’t get on with the job because nobody had told them to bring their wellies.
If a squelchy parallel can be drawn, it’s like soldiers arriving with rifles and no bullets. But then that’s the MoD for you.
Until I lingered over a photo of Sharon Stone in the papers the other day I hadn’t set eyes on her since . . . well, since Edinburgh City Council first promised us the trams would be up and rolling some time soon – and that wasn’t yesterday.
Where has the delectable Sharon been? What has she been up to? To my eyes she is an open and shut case.