All the shops on Edinburgh’s Broughton Street opened late to cater for Festival visitors. I felt particularly sorry for the staff at Crombies, still dressed in their white butchery outfits at 9pm.
Nevertheless, my father-in-law and I took advantage of the extended shop opening hours to buy some cut-price gifts (including a lime green snakeskin wallet), and to pick up a steaming joint of lamb that my sister J had paid for earlier in the day.
Our purchases were soon forgotten when we returned home. We found everyone glued to the television news. It seemed that a whistleblower had finally informed on the least popular member of our household.
When she returned home later, she marched into the flat screaming that all the accusations were false. She had not faked her retirement. Nor was she an ‘organist’, whatever that meant.
I did not respond, but simply wondered when the rest of my revelations would be made public.
Dreamaticus 