I hate it when Edinburgh friends or acquaintances tell me enthusiastically they are heading off to see someone other than me. Especially when there is no indication they will also, at some point, be seeing me. Especially when they’re tromping toward someone you’re officially SUPPOSED to see because of the twisted forces which prevail in that equation. I’ve dropped Facebook friends and ceased to follow on Twitter folks I’ve known were in Edinburgh for a time who did not come to see me. They done wrong and need to be punished. But I am gentle. My punishment leaves no marks.

It happens that, drunk and friendly one night, one year, Anthony Alderson expressed an interest in an idea I had. He looked uncomfortable when I almost tried to follow up sober (him) and treated me differently thereafter. I have not been to Brooke’s Bar in years. I will not give the Pleasance the endorsement my presence implies.

Then there’s the old Coutts Assembly Rooms, which, prior to the recent onslaught of storytelling comedy that, it cannot be denied, was largely stimulated by me, put on an imitation show and didn’t involve me or the one or two other people then establishing such shows in the UK. His effort was never repeated, so it appears to have failed. He has a doughy handshake, without even a hint of confectioner’s sugar dusted upon his palm to diminish its perhaps delicious but tactile-ly unappealing character. 

The ego never lies. 

It never lies still.

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