There were huge queues outside the public lavatories on Princes Street, so I crossed over the road, held my head up high, and climbed up the steps of the Balmoral Hotel. The door staff, concierge, and receptionists barely looked up as I strode past their stations en route for the ladies’ room at the back of the building

First, however, I needed to cross the Palm Court. From the doorway into this oasis of calm, I observed couples and families seated at white-clothed tables enjoying afternoon tea. Assuming that I was waiting for an invitation to enter, a uniformed member of staff ushered me past the first set of palm trees and into the centre of the room. From here I set off independently past the rest of the tables to the rear door and my target destination.

Out of the corner of my eye I thought that I saw my mother-in-law, sister-in-law S, and a couple of my nephews and nieces working their way through plates piled with dainty sandwiches and cakes. But this was impossible. They weren’t in Edinburgh. Even if they were, they could not afford to eat here.

I was just pulling up my trousers when I heard someone battering on my stall door. My sister-in-law S begged me to return to the Palm Court. I was mistaken, my in-laws really were here in Scotland’s capital city!

I was right about one thing though. They couldn’t afford the bill for their afternoon tea. Could I possibly cover the cost of it for them?