TO Hamilton, which is a very friendly place.

As I am having my photograph taken (for a female pin-up mag), a chap with a three-day growth, two teeth like standing stones and a walking stick, stops and stares. When I tell him what's happening, he says: "I've got tae see this." I ask if he's going to vote Yes. "No," he says, emphatically. Chancing my arm, I ask why. "Lots of reasons," he says. "Give me one," I say, adding: "Wouldn't you like Scotia to be governed by Scots?" "No, I wouldnae," he says, and bids me farewell.

WHEN I heard that a BBC journalist had doorstepped Vlad Putin I should have known it would be my old chum John Sweeney. "Do you regret the killings in Ukraine?", the Sweeney asked Vlad. According to one Russian rag, Mr Sweeney has "a reputation for sailing close to the wind". Thank goodness someone has. Not so long ago the bold fellow smuggled himself into North Korea. On another fabled occasion he donned wetsuit and snorkel and invaded the island of Sark, home to my old chums Freddie and Dave Barclay, erstwhile owners of the Hootsmon. The Sweeney worked briefly for The List where he had a formidable reputation as a gourmand. If memory serves me right, he was first person I ever saw eating a pizza with chips as a topping.

JIM Murphy's never-ending tour continues, despite the fact someone tried to cook scrambled eggs on his back. Mr Murphy, who has always struck me as the kind of chap who doesn't mind breaking a few eggs in order to produce an omelette, made much of the incident and briefly cancelled his 100-stop tour to save the Union. Far be it from me to suggest this was a cynical move designed to feed the fervid imaginations of naysayers in the meeja who are never happier than when chuntering about supposed brutish behaviour perpetrated by those in the Yes camp. In my experience, any boorishness has come from those with No tattooed on their foreheids. In Hamilton, I heard tell of a local Labour councillor who, when Yes campaigners rang his bell, abused them in what can only be called unparliamentary language. What upset the campaigners was that it was three in the afternoon and the fellow was still in his PJs.

Yougo Rifferkind, fruit of the loins of Shir Malky, has paid us a visit, as indeed have so many of our expat kin of late. Like so many of his ilk, Oor Hugo is upset at the prospect of a Yes vote and is doing whatever he can to ensure this does not happen. In the main, this involves talking to his chums, few of whom appear to need converting, being No men through and through. Mr Yougo has been in my own backyard which just happens to be near where his folks live. In order to take the political temperature he has taken a stroll down "my parents' high street". I thought the high street belonged to all of us. Not so, it would appear. It belongs to the Rifferkinds. But I have yet to see Shir Malky shopping for victuals in Farmfoods or Poundstretcher. The latter not only sells everything for a quid it also houses the post office, though the handsome Victorian one we did have still stands. Empty. Would I like to see it reopen? Yes!

THERE are two women on the top deck of the Number 26 bus, both talking simultaneously into their phones. Expletives have been deleted to protect the civilised. The blonde one says: "Ah wis steamin'. He says, 'I'm starvin', ah need tae eat something'. Ah said, 'I'm so steamin' ah cannae cook anything. Couldnae heat a tin o' beans even. Couldnae see a tin o' beans come ti that!' He says, wait there, 'I'll be roon the noo'. So roon he comes. I'm in ma jammies, steamin'. He say, 'Right then, let's get something tae eat'. And he carries me, me in ma jammies and baffies, oot tae the car and roon tae McDonald's. At four o'clock in the mornin'!"

Meanwhile, two seats in front of her, is the other woman. She is older, though not much, but she is certainly louder. Every syllable she utters is audible to all. "Gran, is that you?" Presumably it is she. "Yes, I've been tae see the doctor. Honest! Where dae yi think I've been then? Yes, I took the form, and it's all fine. You're no goin' intae a home! Whae tellt you that! He's a liar! I'm tellin' yi you're no goin' intae a home. Yes, I gave him the form. Yes, if your heart packs in they'll no ­resuscitate yi. What? Can yi speak up a bit, I'm on a noisy bus! No, they'll no ­resuscitate yi, take my word for it."

I will not hear a bad word said against my dear amigo, Matthew Barzun, US ambassador to the UK. Mr Barzun has caused a stushie after he revealed that, since crossing the Pond, he has eaten more lamb than he can stomach. What can one say? You either like lamb or you don't. I do, preferably as chops or in shepherd's pie. I once had roast lamb for lunch with a shepherd in the Borders and spent most of the meal discussing the relative merits of shepherd's pie and cottage pie. The shepherd said he didn't mind eating the former as long the contents did not include one of his own lambs. It would have been like eating his children, he said. Which, I said, was a pretty compelling argument but for the fact that he didn't seem to mind eating other people's.