MONDAY

MONDAY

TO a Yes gathering at the Brunton Hall, Musselburgh-sur-Forth. More than 200 folk turn up to ponder the question: "whit noo?" A majority, possibly unanimous, insists that there should be another referendum, tomorrow if possible. The local EmEsPee, Colin Beattie, says he would prefer to look to the future rather than paw over the past. One woman, however, says she believes the vote was lost because those aged over 70 en masse voted No. This causes a number of septuagenarians to stagger to their pins and protest, all of whom are outraged at the idea that they are conservative with a wee "c" and risk-averse. In an attempt to restore calm I suggest that, in the event of another referendum, people should follow my lead and chain elderly relatives to radiators during polling hours. To my amazement this is not as well-received as I had hoped.

TUESDAY

YOU'VE no doubt heard on the grapevine about the Great Blinds Saga, which I can do no more than precis ici. At the beginning of July, the Home Secretary (whose portfolio includes Soft Furnishings) visited the store that's "never knowingly undersold" and chose blinds for four windows. A month later a man came and measured said windows. The blinds were then ordered and paid for. Another five weeks passed before another man arrived with the blinds. One was the wrong size, one was the right size, and the other two were so constructed that, when closed, you needed to be as tall as Michael Jordan to reach the cord to open them.

The HS called the store that's "never knowingly undersold" which, eventually, dispatched another man to look into things. He conceded that there was a problem but was unsure what could be done about it. We could, for example, remove the worktops which prevent us getting direct access to the blinds. Or - our suggestion! - the cords could simply be lengthened to allow Lilliputians to pull them. The man said that would be the best and least disruptive solution but cited recent health and safety legislation which is designed to prevent people hanging themselves, either unintentionally or by design. He said he'd look into it. A few more days passed. A call to the store that's "never knowingly undersold" has revealed that the problem has been passed on to the manufacturer. We await his news, which is expected "within a few days". It ought - forgive me! - to be an open and shut case but I fear that that is simply wishful thinking.

WEDNESDAY

ANENT - you know it makes sense! - post offices and their miserable locations, a dear friend tells me he was recently in one in a part of Edinburgh that it is foolhardy to visit without body armour. Spying a bloke in the queue who had helped himself to a chicken breast or two, my friend raised an eyebrow, and was rewarded not only with a tirade from the would-be thief but also from everyone else in the queue, a few of whom suggested that if my friend would like to step outside the matter could be settled mano a mano. "Hasty" is the word that perhaps best describes my dear chum's retreat.

KEEP Your Dog Alive is the talk of Cannes. It is a TV game show in which six contestants compete to have their dogs cloned before they die (the dogs, that is). Each contestant is given an ornamental dog, which they must prevent from being broken. This is easier said than done, given the tasks they must perform, which are too tedious to describe here. Whoever hangs on to their pristine porcelain pug the longest wins the palm. You will not be surprised to learn that rabid dog-owners are queuing up to take part in Keep Your Dog Alive. Meanwhile, Simon Cowell says he has thought about having his dog cloned. It could have been a lot worse …

FRIDAY

READERS of this happily throbbing organ may have got the wrong impression about the No 26 bus, known fondly as the Tranent Taxi. For this I fully accept the blame. It's true that a typical No 26 has its fair share of numpties, morons, druggies, drunks, ne'er-do-wells, bampots, tumshies and loud-mouthed young women eager to tell all and sundry how they're about to get "s******". I would like to say they are the exception, but I mustn't mislead you.

However, there are a few passengers who might best be described as respectable. Two - women of a certain age - sat in front of me yesterday, discussing their recent Grand Tour. One (let's call her Mrs Salt, because she was white-haired) said: "Wasn't Venice lovely?"

Her companion (hereafter known as Mrs Pepper, because dye had been applied to her thatch) agreed. In future, however, she said that she was going to go more upmarket. "It's got to be the Danieli or the Cipriani. You want to be right in the centre, no oot in the sticks," she said.

"I agree," said Mrs Salt, giving herself a shake at the very thought of being off the beaten track.

"I'm no' going back to Florence, though," she added.

"No," said Mrs Pepper. "Isn't that station awful! Had it no' been sae bad I would've went to Pisa. But the guide said to no' go near the station. It's worse than Waverley."

"A lot worse," said Mrs Salt. "Mair beggars for a start. But Nice was nice, wasn't it. Lovely place Nice. I don't think I've ever eaten a better pizza." Eat your heart out, TripAdvisor!

SATURDAY

BAFFLINGLY, no-one has mentioned that, in becoming leader of the Gnats, Nicola Sturgeon has followed in the piscine footsteps of her predecessor, Alexei Salmon, the king of fishes. Chambers Dictionary says that sturgeons are generally to be found in northern temperate waters. Characteristically, they have a "cartilaginous" skull, a long snout, "heterocercal" tail, and "rows of bony shields on the skin".

Roughly translated, this means they are bone-headed, Roman-nosed, with a shark-like rump and are as a tough as old boots.

In short, this is the very definition of the First Minister-in-waiting.