GOOD Lord, wasn’t the town helluva busy Saturday lunchtime? Wasn’t the town in a real melee?
I was searching for one woman specifically, namely Princess Anne.
I knew she’d be somewhere in the thick of it . . . not to be detected in Primark, Marks & Sparks or even John Lewis.
The hairstyle would have been a dead giveaway but it wasn’t until I saw her at the big game.
You mean, John, the derby at Tynecastle? Indeed no, I meant the match at Murrayfield where I saw her shake hands with the teams.
Her son-in-law, Mike Tindall, was a commentator. Like I say, the town was chock-a-block with visitors, some of whom stopped me at the West End, asking what had happened to the Kelpies. I had to tell them that I’ve been intrigued, as they were, wondering how they had vanished, replaced by a reddish lump. Purporting to be God knows what in their place.
No matter, on days like these Princes Street, on her best behaviour and given the weather, can still look like a million dollars.
An informant tells me that the thronged street was cold and windy and regal. A street to be proud of. Including, of course, the Balmoral Hotel and its chefs Jeff Bland and Brian Grigor.
Blast from the past. Somebody dropped Donald Dewar’s name into the conversation at the weekend.
My vivid recollection of Donald was that he had a habit of stuffing his pockets with any food up for grabs.Commodious pockets, too, as I recall.
Without as much as a blush or respect for his modest suits, he would fill them up with all available grub.
Well, a man has got to eat. We’ve all got to eat, haven’t we? Even a man with a voracious appetite.