Postbag

You'd hardly credit some people. I feel sorry for John Peel having to wade through all that homespun muck to put on something vaguely interesting on a Saturday morning.
The Monday night version is much better because it doesn't go on quite so long.
Anyway, thank you to all the kind people who wrote in to tell me how to spell Sandi's name correctly.
I've had a few queries about Mongolian singers and what makes them so unusual. I'm not an expert but I have heard them and the sound they produce is a bit like a didgeridoo with a penny whistle inside.
Sounds very difficult and it's probably bad for the blood pressure so don't try it at home.

Now, getting back to people you could hardy credit. There's a pile of letters here from people asking such questions as "Does your Organic Hut do deliveries?"

Some of you would seem to think your regular presenter lives in the Scottish equivalent of Ambridge.
Try thinking hard up, Monarch Of The Glen with weekly deliveries from Fortnum's, Columbia and Morocco, not to mention Oddbins.

Standing In

Now, before you start getting too used to me, I'm just standing in for the usual presenter because she's had to go in for a liver transplant.
Between you and me I think it was that pub crawl from one end of Rose Street to the other, that finally caused her's to pack in.
They're saying it's a virus, of course, but then they would. Always closing ranks that lot. Worse than the bloody Masons.
Talking of Masons, I was going to play you a bit of Mozart but there doesn't seem to be a turntable in here.
Typical!
They expect you to down tools and hold the fort without so much as a cassette player.
If I'd known I would have let Sandi Toksvig do it. She can turn her had to anything and I believe she keeps a couple of Mongolian singers under the kitchen table just in case.
I wonder if she would let me borrow them for next time?
If anyone knows how to spell her name properly you will let me know?
I suppose I could go to the BBC website but after the day I've had I just want to put me feet up with a sherry.

Why Me?

I don't know why they keep asking me to do these blogs but apparently, I've become something of a celebrity since I walked the The Twin Peaks in a pair of sling backs for mental health week.
God that was an experience! I've never been anywhere so weird in all my life and I ended up with a jippy kidney.

Anyway I was just telling our production manager that I think Loretta is anorexic, either that or Wombat is starving her.
The dress I ran up for her is at least two sizes too big and of course with that pink face and those rubber gloves she looks more like a blow up doll than a world class actress.
Poor soul, she hasn't done much work since the Tempest. She did appear for a photo shoot last Sunday but as far as I know for the past few years she's been hanging on a peg in Wombat's hall.
So It's back to the sewing machine.

Any Thane Goes

You may not know this but many years ago at the Grand Opening of The Birnam institute The Marx Brothers performed Macbeth.
My dear friend and dramaturge BR Wombat recently adapted the play and has just signed a contract for 50% of the film rights.
The play was recently performed on the lawns of Kirkinch with Wombat playing the parts of Abner P Shakespeare (Groucho) and Herr Frietag.
I handled the parts played by Chico and Harpo and I was also Mrs. De Birnam.
The part of Loretta Bubbly was played by Norma Jean, well known Shakespearian actress and Nymphet.
There was a cup of tea afterwards.
Wombat productions would like to thank all those who contributed to the raffle and a big thanks goes to Philip Marx for his piece in the Blairy.

Portrait of the Author as a young tree 

Edinburgh Nights 3

I'm getting a bit bored with this. Another weekend has been and gone and I'm still trying to catch up with this one. So to cut a long story short we went pub crawling, comparing the wine and the service on offer in various bars from one end of Rose Street to the other.
By the time we hit the Rutland, for just one more, we should have been tucked up in bed and that was where I spent most of the next day paying the price.

The End

Edinburgh Nights Part 2

We left Petits Paris all smiles and good humour and sauntered up The Grassmarket towards Victoria Road.
Not ready to go home, we had the idea that one more drink in Maxim's would round of the evening very nicely.
Maxim's is ideally situated on a sort of roof top veranda just below the castle and it should have been another enjoyable experience.
Sadly it was a big disappointment. Below the veranda in another restaurant on Victoria Road something was burning and the smell of old chip oil was a bit off putting. Thankfully we were not directly above the restaurant or we would have been shrouded in smoke too.
It was ages before a waitress took our order and this she did very grudgingly though we tried hard to make her smile.
The Wine was very good but there was no point in staying for more. The service was so bad we would have been sober by the time we got another drink from that miserable waitress.

to be continued

Edinburgh Nights

It's Wednesday and I'm still exhausted from my weekend in Edinburgh.
I arrived at my brother and sister in law's new flat in a leafy west end avenue about 4.30 on Saturday.
We had a quick cup of tea, I was given a tour of the house and then we set of for town.
We took the route alongside The Water Of Leith avoiding the traffic but not the bicycles.
Our first stop was Ryan's Bar for a quick refreshment and then we made our way over to the Grassmarket having decided on a French meal.
After a lovely meal outside on the pavement, a couple of bottles of wine and some encouragement from the delightful waiters we set off again.

to be continued

Ozias Midwinter

I've just written to Johnny Depp, as you do, to suggest that if ever a character would "Suit you sir" that Character Would be the dark and mysterious Ozias Midwinter from the Wilkie Collins novel Armadale.
If I get a reply I'll let you know.

Sainted Mother

Talking of asparagus, years ago my mother created an asparagus bed behind the old polythene greenhouse my dad put up. She got a crop from it in it's second year but the following year when she when to see what was happening there was no sign of anything growing. For years she blamed my dad for destroying her asparagus bed but the other day I was listening to The Food Programme on the radio and I think I may have discovered what really happened.
The asparagus season is very short and usually stops in the middle of June the reason being that if you go on cropping it to the very end there will be nothing left to nourish the crown or root. It turned out that my mother didn't know this. She cut all the asparagus as it grew well past the end of the season till there was none left and no asparagus the next year.
My mother was always accusing my dad of cutting down or digging out her plants but she's a nightmare in the garden herself. Today I found her yanking out armfuls of poppies that had grown from seeds I'd scattered last year. We really need a new pair of loppers but if I get them she will just use them to mutilate the trees and shrubs. If she ever knew how to prune things properly she has forgotten. We have got some weird looking trees and shurbs and in the summer she just seems to be obsessed with giving every thing a bad haircut.
Last year when I was visiting my sister I had the neighbour's watching out for any signs of my mother hacking at the trees. One of them, who is an ex police officer wondered if she was expected to shout through a loudhaler, "Mrs Brown you are surrounded put down your loppers and move away from the magnolia tree."