We’ve met face to face only once. In Shandwick Place. Before it became the tawdry trams cesspit it is now. Yes, a long time ago. But she keeps a clear, businesslike head, does Yoko.
I’m not at all surprised to hear that she has launched a fashion range in menswear. I’ve been advised to choose from the range a couple of items for my Christmas stocking.
Accordingly I am expecting in the post, marked fragile, buttock-revealing trousers and a tank top vest with nipple cut-outs. Guaranteed to make your columnist conspicuous in the Princes Street throng.
I am making room in my underwear drawer. Neatly pressed in preparation for Porty beach next summer, my mankini. Imagine.
With the demise of the printed Dandy you’d suspect that Celtic’s Scott Brown’s literary world would have crashed around him, his required reading no longer available. But no. Somebody has sent him a copy of a Dostoevsky novel. Dusty who? Dusty Springfield?
My ramshackle First Bus on the way to glorious East Lothian stopped at Meadowbank House, a huge edifice housing Registers of Scotland. Is this Edinburgh’s least appealing build? The bus pulled up, allowing passengers to look and look again. In disbelief.
A “shock-horror” affair reminiscent of the shelters used by the Stasi, East Germany’s secret police. Ideal for interrogation. People went never to be seen there again. Meadowbank House’s architects would be well worth interrogating. I mean, look at it. Just look at it.