WHAT an embarrassment. No, not me, you rotters. Scotland. No, not all of Scotland. The Highlands. No, not all of the Highlands. The hotel sector. No, not all of it. But, yes, definitely, some of it.

Come on, we’ve all been there. Surly service. Rotten food. Putrid rooms. There’s a theory that the further north you go, the worse service becomes.

Once, about 20 years ago, I stayed in a massive concrete monstrosity that was the first thing to greet ferry arrivals in a small northern town. I was pretty much the only guest, apart from a group of Norwegians, who were all dressed like something out of an Agatha Christie novel, presumably thinking this was how “British” people dressed.

The service was brusque and unsmiling, and the food awful. It was a fish dish, and I had to send it back (the only time I’ve ever done such a thing) as it was stale and dry. Despite the harbour being full of fishing boats, it transpired they froze all their fish and sent it south, while the hotel imported frozen fish from Grimsby.

Worse than this was the fact that I was the only customer in the restaurant, where a clearly disturbed individual – the waiter – stood staring at me for the entirety of the meal. His lower jaw lay on his chest and, while I suspect memory has added lurid detail, I’m sure he was drooling.

Next morning, as I was leaving, I noticed a whiteboard at the entrance welcoming fellow professionals to a seminar on “Hospitality” that the hotel was hosting.

It’s perhaps not just in northern Britain where bad service applies, as Scandinavian hospitality is famously lacking, though I think that applies more to restaurants than hotels.

Once, I stayed in a hotel in Ulvik, Norway and, when our coach left in the morning, all the staff came out in lovely costumes and smiled and waved us goodbye. It was like something out of the Sound of the Music (mountain backdrop included) and absolutely charming though, of course, perhaps they were just glad to see the back of us.

Consisting of a group of Scottish islanders, we’d a daily battle trying to find cheap drink. On one occasion, I even tried speaking a little Norwegian, asking at reception for a bottle opener for some hooch that I’d smuggled into my room. Came away with an extra pillow.

But I digress. Back to Scotland, where a millionaire from yonder Mumbai was so downhearted by the service he received in the Highlands that he bought out three hotels and is determined to run them as welcoming, tasteful places.

On a hiking holiday, Sanjay Narang found cold, dirty rooms, no hot water in winter, and all his meals microwaved: one hotel had only one cooking ring. Now he’s bought the Letterfinlay Lodge in Spean Bridge, Cluanie Inn at Glenmoriston, and the Craigard Guest House, Invergarry, for several million of your Earth pounds.

He’s spending millions more doing them up, with no clichéd themes such as Braveheart and the Loch Ness Monster, he says, and getting in top chefs to serve both Scottish and Asian dishes.

Oh, the shame we should feel! I’d thought service was getting better in Scotland, as a new generation of young folk greet customers in a friendly manner (“Hi, guys!”), doubtless on pain of being fired if they don’t.

Perhaps it’s the older generation in the “hospitality” sector that still have Basil Fawlty as their patron saint. If so, the sooner they’re bought out by Indian millionaires the better.

MANY readers say: “How do you sleep at night?” Answer: badly. I get off to Nodland quickly but always wake up in the middle of the night, usually after nightmares that I’d become a newspaper columnist. Then I think: “Oh, thank God. It was just a dream.”

The reason I get off to sleep quickly is that I use audiobooks, generally ones that make me feel safe and snug, particularly when I now know some of them word for word.

Thus, I use, as you would expect, dramatisations or readings of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Hugh Dennis’s wonderful readings of Tove Jansson’s Moomins books, some Zen stuff, and a series of lectures by an American professor about ancient Greece, ken?

For some reason, they don’t always work when I wake up in the middle of the night, possibly because it’s a more disturbing time when decent ratepayers should be gently snoring.

Accordingly, I was intrigued to read about the appointment of the first Sleep Storyteller-in-Residence, for an app called Calm. Phoebe Smith writes “slow literature”, being a mindful meander in which the aim is that the listener doesn’t make it to the end, but dozes off first.

Hey, I’ve been writing stuff like that for years! But this sounds intriguing. Phoebe’s a travel writer and, as someone who disapproves of travel generally, I cannot condone writing about it. However, I might check this out, as I believe it is better never to arrive than to travel hopefully.

AN MSP at Holyrood has been scurrying about, turning up at committee meetings, sniffing for cheese and other light comestibles. The Mouse of the Scottish Parliament has caused considerable panic, with calls for it to be put to death without mercy.

They were even thinking of getting a cat in, as if there weren’t enough sly evil (Con) in the place already. Why don’t they just leave the little blighter alone?

I’ve often had a solitary mouse in my life – inevitably called Gerald, after the one in the Syd Barrett song – and have enjoyed their company. Mostly, they’ve been field mice in the garden but, once, I had a wee fella that used to run over my feet as I typed up my heartfelt convictions and other jokes.

I think you’ll find with mice that their bark is worse than their bite. So it’s no surprise that they’re fetching up at Holyrood.