John Gibson: Martin Hunt’s not about to jacket in

Martin Hunt
Martin Hunt
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Dundas Street hasn’t been the same without him. Martin Hunt had his own down-the-steps public relations firm there, Tartan Silk, for 17 years. Then one day he was gone, lock stock.

He had a “health scare” and in time flitted with the business from the New Town’s Dundas Street to unfashionable Montrose Terrace in Abbeyhill. I recall questioning the move to Abbeyhill by Thomas Maxwell, the high-falutin’ florist who, spurred by crippling rates, migrated from Castle Street.

Back to Mr Hunt, he of the snazzy jackets off the priciest Harvey Nichols hooks. We were mingling over lunch in Hanover Street’s Rusticana, for a reunion of the six veteran judges of the ill-fated Edinburgh Festival Cavalcade.

While he’s not splashing the cash at Harvey Nichols heights, he’s still very much a PR operator. In his diary, dates at the Castle of Mey and a valuation day at Bonhams of Broughton.

Dirty, David

How insanitary can you get? David Attenborough seemingly has the answer. He kept a breeding colony of bush babies in his house. “People need to keep them in very clean conditions.”

That said, the male marks his territory by peeing on his hands and putting it on the walls.

Thanks for letting us know, Sir David, who adds: “After you’ve had a pair for six months you can see people coming into the house, sniffing and saying ‘that’s definitely mulligatawny soup’.”

Your invitation to dinner was appreciated but I’ve sent it back to you by return of post.