MY dear amigo, Alastair Reid, poet, prosateur, translator, has taken up residence in Parnassus, where, I am assured, there is a library stocked - doubtless by Amazon - with every book ever written.

Mr Reid, of course, was a friend of the great Argentinian scribe Jorge Luis Borges, whose poetry he translated. I'm sure I do not need to remind readers of this throbbing organ that Mr Borges, in his story The Library Of Babel, imagined a place where you could find every book worth reading. Mr Reid thought that idea simultaneously appealing and appalling. When, on occasion, we visited the Strand bookstore in New York, which famously boasts eight miles of books, he would take one look at the bulging, endless shelves and make a quick exit, depressed at the thought of the effort that went into filling them. Mr Reid's policy was not to acquire ever more books but only to add one to his library when he was prepared to release another into the wilds. Unlike some of us, he had the irritating habit of reading the books he bought. Once he looked at mine, which climb ceiling-wards like ivy, and asked: "How much did you pay for the wallpaper?"

ALEXEI Salmonella has not resigned. I do wish meeja folk would stop saying so. He has simply said that he will not seek re-election as leader of the SNP and will therefore no longer be First Meenister. There is a difference. He will remain an MP and an MSP. Meanwhile, Alistair Dahling is considering his options and may not seek re-election as an EmPee next year. Good for him! I have a sneaking feeling, however, that we have not seen the last of his sonsie face. Even now, I'm sure, Queen Tupperware is wondering whether to ennoble him or give him one of her Garters. Having saved the banks from drowning and rescued the Union from imploding, he deserves all the gongs she can throw at him. Thus revolves the merry-go-round.

OUR whistleblower at Buck Palace brings news of a phone call between Posh Dave and Queen Tupperware. "Hi Ma'am, Dave here. So sorry to bother you." There is no immediate reply, though Dave thinks he can hear someone snoring noisily like the Empress of Blandings. He hangs on, aware that if he says anything untoward Queen Tupperware may not be best pleased and could order him to have his adenoids removed or have him replaced by Nigel Farrago.

Eventually, there is the sound of shuffling, which may be coming from one of the royal corgis. ­"Hell-o! Who's there? Who is calling at this ungodly hour?"

Posh D looks at his watch. It is two in the morning. He is in New York, the city which never sleeps. More importantly, it is five hours behind London.

"I'm terribly sorry, Ma'am, but I hadn't realised the time." "Well, realise it now," says QT, "and get orf the line. We have work to do tomorrow even if you don't. Who did you say you are?"

"Dave, Ma'am, the Pee-Em. I just wanted to say how sorry I am. It just came out. How was I to know there was camera crew eavesdropping on me?"

"What on earth are you talking about, man? Have you any idea what time it is? If you waken Philip up there will be hell to pay. Hell, I say, which may well be where you're heading if you don't shut up. What are you sorry for any way?"

Dave sighs. He has had a hard day and still has people to meet and bombs to drop.

"I was overheard saying you purred when I told you the result of the Scottish referendum. It is a terrible breach of confidence. Please say you'll forgive me."

"Purred? What do you mean 'purred'? What do you think I am, a big cat?"

"No Ma'am, I would never think that. No, when it comes to animals, you're definitely not a cat. A dog, yes, a horse, perhaps, but a cat, never."

There is silence at the other end of the line. A long silence. An awful silence. Dave looks at the handset and then puts it to his ear. The line has gone dead. Posh Dave shakes his head so hard that it unscrews from his neck and bounces across the floor.

THERE is much ado about dialogue in fillums and TV dramas, the gist of which is that it's either incomprehensible or inaudible. I agree. Much of what's said in the fillums which the Home Secretary and I watch on Netflix passes us by. On top of which the screen is so dark it's like sitting with a blanket over your head. This, I'm told, is done in the name of authenticity. Thrillers in which there is copious bad language and violence are the worst. This may be an age thing. Alternatively, it may be because filmmakers don't a give a damn. One fillum, however, is exempt from all criticism. I refer, joyfully, to Pulp Fiction, in which you can hear every word that's said. Is that too much to ask?

THE Ryder Cup has teed off. Just two more glorious days to go.

THE Kirk has called for reconciliation where none is required. What is needed is a powerful spotlight to shine on those banks and businesses that attempted to force their staff to vote No.

We know that the bosses of Tesco, M&S, B&Q and John Lewis had a pow-wow at Downing Street to co-ordinate their opposition. Prices would rise, businesses would do a bunk and jobs would be lost if Scotia dared to vote Yes.

One now learns daily of the extent of the intimidation and bullying. The Royal Bank, for example, told its staff that jobs would "go" if there was independence.

Tesco Bank sent emails saying much the same. Every little helped to sway the vote in favour of the naebodies.

That's how big business ensures it gets the result it wants. And you thought you were living in a democracy!