It's 12:30pm at Cameron House. Loch Lomond twinkles picture-postcard blue, and there is no sign of Il Maestro. At 12:45 a series of flint-eyed security men snap at each other on portable phones, although close enough to link arms. At last, we are ushered in. It's 1:30 and every twitch of the door handle causes a frisson. The PR lady is smiling bravely - yes, his entourage occupy 14 rooms. No, his bodyguards aren't from the Mafia.
Suddenly, he's there - huge, healthy and smiling. Beady-eyed, he has the alarming quality of seeming to stare at everyone at once. Cameras flash until stoney-faced agent/manager, Harvey Goldsmith, calls a halt. Pavarotti dutifully gushes about Scotland, the hotel, the scenery.
Is he on a diet? Yes, in 25 days he'll have to wear a red carnation so we will recognise him. Yes, he needs special attention when he travels, as only extreme cosseting makes his singing possible. No, he doesn't sing Scottish songs.
The football buffs who ask about Scotland's prospects are treated to a stream of flattery about our native stars, and the Nessun Dorma World Cup recording is discussed.
But can Maestro Pavarotti justify the 85 cost of tickets for tonight's concert at the SECC in Glasgow? It's a shame that everyone can't afford them, he says, and makes a gesture of appeal to Harvey Goldsmith. Mr Goldsmith shrugs and swigs his Perrier. A chirpy chap from the Sun asks for the Maestro's views on Scottish independence, amidst loud groans. Yes, says Pavarotti, raising a hand for silence, you Scots are different. From the religious and human point of view, he tells us, very seriously, we should all be the same.
He talks about how he has popularised opera, how he was the first to bring La Bohme to the Lincoln Center and how many letters he gets. 2:15pm: Someone asks about his most special moment. Mr Goldsmith smothers a yawn, and stands up. Three chauffeurs peel from the back wall, and the party, fur and denim-clad, are swept away.