BEING JOHN SWINNEY

Sitting in the car waiting for the ferry to Ardrossan we saw a bloke in a blue cagoule who looked just like John Swinney.

Surely not.  What would Scotland's Deputy First Minister and Cabinet Secretary for Finance, Constitution and Economy be doing in Broddick?  On a Thursday?  Weren’t there affairs of state to be dealt with?  And what was a man of his stature doing waiting for the MV Caledonian Isles with us half-term, half-arsed holiday makers?  Shouldn’t he be safely stowed in a motorcade of long black sedans with fluttering flags, before being whisked aboard a private jet by a possy of heavily armed men in black suits and sunglasses?

Never one to pass up on a celebrity encounter I got out of the car and walked casually towards him.  There was no one else walking on the pier, so no natural cover to camouflage my approach.  Accordingly I took a wide sweep of his left flank, hoping to catch a glimpse under his hood without raising suspicion.  

NEW COAT

A couple of weeks ago, while holidaying on the luxury island resort of Arran on the Costa del Clyde, me and the woman I call my wife dared to think the unthinkable.

I don’t even think we’d taken alcohol.  There was no excuse, except perhaps an uncharacteristic fit of joie de vivre brought on by some unseasonably clement weather.  We decided we were going to buy coats with North Face written on them.  Coats with three-figure price tags, boasting as much technology as the International Space Station, but far more desirable to get into to.  Because it suddenly occurred to us that it’s what people like us do; save thirty quid a week by shopping at Aldi then blow two month’s savings on a coat that keeps us warm at -30ºC.