A Social Life

I still, occasionally, get invited to parties. Not cakes and jelly and balloons any more - just straining to hear what is being said to me as I clutch my glass of red.

A wee while back, my wife (Mik) and I found ourselves straining to hear what was being said in a room full of lawyers in Edinburgh's New Town. We knew no-one except the host and hostess but found ourselves straining to hear an apparently-pleasant woman who was married to a lawyer. They lived in North Berwick, a few miles away from us, and she promised to invite us to dinner. How kind, we thought. We knew we had created an impression when some six months later she phoned, I answered, I said my name, and she asked: 'Ah! Are you the Jim and Mik who fix gas fires?'

At such parties I sometimes get asked where I live (a sure sign that the conversation isn't firing on all cylinders). When I say Gullane, I get asked about a restaurant there where people have to book months ahead (I've never been), then if Gullane is pronounced Gullane or Gillane. Believe it or not, this tantalising topic has even made it onto the Letters Page of THE SCOTSMAN. After a few exchanges, one wag wrote to the newspaper to enquire if the people of Gillane spread ding on their gardens. Being an eminently social type I couldn't help but write to say that the people of Gillane certainly do not spread ding on their gardens: they have the most marvellous little man who does it for them.

(Perhaps he also fixes gas fires.)

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