John Gibson: Who’s that singing in the rain?

A WET Wednesday. I’m in Marina’s, struggling to unwrap a straight-from-the-fridge block of Lockerbie Creamery butter and minding my own business. Thinking who the hell of these passers by needs to be dawdling down Cockburn Street on a day like this? Faces tripping them.

An utterly miserable afternoon, and wondering had any of the couthy coffee shop’s regulars dropped in that morning.

No sign of porridge guzzler Norrie Rowan (probably abroad comforting some bird), nor of Gordon Scott (engrossed in tallying his Trattoria’s takings from the previous night) and, also posted missing, Malcolm Scott (presumably dossing in a hammock on a Caribbean shangri-la).

But hey, has your columnist himself nothing better to do than gawk at the drenched footfallers, all the while sipping Marina Crolla’s coffee and listening to her canned Latin music. I’m sure that was Julio Iglesias.

Just me and Julio singing in the rain. I’ve known better Wednesdays.

Join the jet set

What Santa dropped down my lum for Christmas, a new Lonely Planet guide titled How To Land a Jumbo Jet. I forget to tell you.

Some wag with a wicked sense of humour. Listen, alighting from a Lothian bus is problem enough for me. There has to be a book in that.

A remote possibility it’s an age thing. The memory goes as well.

Afterwords . .

. . . Adrian Chiles (do you remember the face ?) still lamenting the demise of Daybreak and his part in its downfall: “I’m not really bitter.” Oh yes you are. Something to be ashamed of but stand up and take it like a man.