London: city of dreams, museums and lost minicab drivers

I'VE BEEN to that there London. For pleasure. I hear you say: "Are you mad? You, who loves quiet, green places, in London toon? For pleasure?" All right, don't go on about it. I'd only ever been to London before on business (except when Scotland got beaten 5-1 at Wembley, and that was hardly pleasure), and fancied seeing the sights. Besides, the Burd gets enough peace and quiet where she lives Up Yonder, so a wee break among the pollution wouldn't harm her.

I like London. It is what it is: a big, proper capital, bustling and thriving, with all-night butchers and a million tongues a-babbling. We took the train from Embra. The 9:00 and the 9:30 were cancelled. So, by the time the 10:00 came, three trainloads of us wedged ourselves aboard. The reservations system went out the window, along with the weak and infirm.

On the intercom, the train's "team leader" apologised so often, with the same long-winded explanation about power failures, that some of us wanted an apology for all the apologies. His apologies were accompanied by a plea not to attack the staff. How we laughed.

Four and a half hours later, we arrived at King's Cross, then took the Undergroond to Covent Garden. What a brilliant, bubbling place, with entertainers everywhere. It's like the Edinburgh Festival every weekend. We met the Burd's cousin Kay, her man Davie, and other friends (including the Disneyland appreciation society; long story - don't ask) in a diner, then set off for Stoke Newington to stay with the Burd's Uncle Rex, a writer and lecturer on theatre, and Auntie Sandra, a film actress. Lovely folk. Delightful terraced house and a cosy little garden, where bees still buzzed aboot in November.

Next day, we went to the British Museum: fan-flippin'-tastic. I'd seen bits of the Elgin Marbles before, where they belonged: Lord Elgin's hoose in Fife (though I can't remember if his were copies). That night, we stayed in Crouch End with my journalistic mentor, Callum, and his missus, Alex. I used to be a big proper journalist like Callum, but while I branched off into writing meretricious causeries, he investigates shenanigans in Iraq. He has a Swedish au-pair and a Polish cleaner. I've a man from Leith who wipes the windows every fortnight for six quid.

The sight of Callum cooking is chaotic. Yet the grub was eminently edible. And the fact that Alex forgave me for panning (while a TV reviewer) programmes she'd commissioned for Five, made for a fine evening.

Next night had a musical theme. We stayed with the Burd's cool and kindly cousin Candida, who used to play keyboards in Pulp, and went to see The Soond o' Music on stage. Word of warning about minicab drivers: we were recommended reliable ones and, true, they were decent blokes whose fares were cheaper than black cabs. But they'd no idea where they were going. Even with satnav, our driver couldn't find the London Palladium. As a result, we missed the start of the show and, at 55 a ticket, that was a lot of miss.

Truth to tell, I'd been dreading The Soond, but it was a birthday treat for the Burd. Chaps, I loved it! These singing nuns sure gave it laldy. Next day, we went to the Hoose o' Commons, for a laugh. Our host was Angus MacNeil, SNP MP for the Western Isles. Gosh, Angus did us proud. Got us top seats for Prime Minister's Question Time (right above Broon's heid, but we'd signed a statement promising not to bung anything), wined and dined us in the posh restaurant, bought us a drink in the Strangers' Bar, and took us out on the terrace.

Top bloke, and a future leader of Scotia withoot a doot. He got on well with everybody, Tories included, and joshed good-naturedly with English folk. We encountered no anti-Scottish hostility during our trip. In fact, I found Londoners uniformly friendly and helpful. Twice, when we were lost, they offered assistance unbidden. Great folk. Uncle Rex and Auntie Sandra (one Englander and one Shetlander) had never even heard of the anti-Scottish bile spouted by Max McHastings and Kelvin O'Cretin.

For political balance, our host the next night was a dear friend who'd signed a press advert as one of 100 "influential Scottish businessmen" supporting the Union. Lovely chap, all the same, David. Big wheel in transport. He and Claire, a painter whose beaming smile would cheer the saddest sourpost, live in a fantastic penthoose flat overlooking the Thames. The Burd nearly boiled to death when she pressed a button in the en-suite shower: a sauna!

Next morning, we returned to Scotia with warm memories of bees in November, singing nuns, kind natives, parliamentary hullabaloo, and friends who've gone forth and prospered: all in that there London toon.