YOU will be wanting to know where I went en vacances. Paris was the fortunate destination. We were in San Sulpice, which is like downtown Stranraer, albeit with shops exhibiting shoes for 500 euros and bistros where the boeuf bourguignon tastes better even than anything in Tesco's Finest range.

All rues led to the Seine where, sûr Pont Royal, the Home Secretary and I stopped to imbibe the scene and study our bunions. No sooner had we sat down than we were greeted by a chubby woman d'un certain âge proffering what appeared to be a solid gold ring which she insisted on presenting to us. Being polite, we engaged her in merry banter. She was from Yugoslavia, she said, and in need of a poke of frites. Might we spare a few coins? I fished out a handful of shrapnel but this did not satisfy her. Did we not have at least 10 euros? The smallest note I had was a 20. Ms Yugoslavia asked for that. I gave her a look that said non. She fished out a 10, which she said she would be happy to exchange for my 20. It was then I realised we were about to be conned. How, I figured, could she be in need of frites when she had argent in her poche? In short, I told her to take a hike, and vite. Later, we showed the hotel manager the golden ring which he didn't even bother to look at before throwing it into a bin with all the others.

WHAT an odd place is Paris. Heading towards another bridge, Pont des Arts, we were accosted again, this time by man bearing padlocks, one of which he was eager to sell us. How, I wondered, did he know we needed one for the garden shed? Be that as it may, I felt that we could perhaps wait until we returned to Blighty before acquiring one, possibly from the ironmonger in North Berwick. Little did we out-of-towners know there is a tradition of witless lovers attaching locks to Pont des Arts and other bridges. It's estimated that at present there are some 700,000 locks on Pont des Arts which, if things go on as they are, could bring it crashing into the murky river. Earlier this year, a couple of sassy Americans started a campaign, No Love Locks, in the hope of saving the bridge, but it's had limited success. Though the authorities have bolted on panels to prevent more locks being added they've been covered in hideous graffiti. Such is the imbecility love provokes.

RESEARCHING the history of the dear greensward I have been studying the consumption of alcohol down the ages. Until I read the Third Statistical Account of Scotia I had no idea that, when new suburbs were built, the dipsomaniac baillies who controlled the licensing boards were reluctant to allow pubs to open there. This would explain a lot, not least the soullessness of these boondocks. The entry in the Statistical Account, published in the 1950s, was written by the great Jack House. Mr House described drinking as an "extra-mural activity". In the 1930s, he recalled, two of the most popular libations in the slums were "jake" and "red biddy", which were cocktails of methylated spirits and cheap red vino. Those intent on seeking oblivion as cheaply and quickly as possible did so by attaching a tube to the gas bracket on the stair landing and allowing a "whiff" of gas to enter a glass of milk. Scent drinking was also widespread, with those who could afford it preferring Eau de Cologne. Who knows what internal damage that caused but there is some consolation in knowing that the victims must have smelled scrummy.

MY dear friend Alexei Salmonella is attempting to usurp moi by writing a diary! The Dream Shall Never Die - mon dieu! - is his account of the 100 days leading up to September 18, 2014, when the independence referendum was won and lost, who knows by whom. You might think Mr Salmonella's scrievings would concentrate on this once-in-a-generation event. How wrong you would be. Instead, he was concerned chiefly with golf and the state of his handicap. This may be what is meant by a work-life balance. While Fifi Hysterical, Meenister for Kulture, would like to put a library card in the hand of every wean, Mr Salmonella's aim is give them a mashie niblick. "It is Scotland's none too secret plan to dominate world golf in around 10 to 15 years," he writes. "None too secret!" Naebody tellt me.

MR Salmonella pays homage to my dear chum, Geoff Aberdein, his top SPAD (special adviser). In so doing, he mentions a last spoof "interview" at Bute House between himself as First Meenister, played by another adviser, and Jackie Bird of the Beeb, played by Mr Aberdein. "If you can secure a copy [of the footage], pay decent money for it," advises Mr Salmonella. In it, we are led to believe, Mr Aberdein flashes his legs and slaps on make-up, which leads one to wonder whether this is something the young fella does often.

AFTER a week away, the first question I asked on returning to the tartan heath was: "What's Creepy Jim Moiphy been up to?" No-one was able to provide an answer. Before I left he was - pace Jeff Beck - everywhere and nowhere, baby. What he has done, however, is deny he ever sniffed glue, which was the drug de jour when he was un garçon. This non-revelation has confirmed the view of many that, had Creepy Jim believed it would have benefited his cause, he would have said the opposite. That, though, would not have gone down well with the douce burgers of East Renfrewshire, which he hopes to regain in May. They're having enough trouble coming to terms with an EmPee hooked on premier cru Irn Bru.