And what of the man with the size 13 Boot, spotted by Lord Linkumdoddie entering the Chambers of Martin Elginbrod QC, observed on CCTV by the perceptive WPC Isa Urquhart handing an evidence bag to the hapless lab technician Simon Symms, and – would you credit it – just now, this very moment, emerging from Elginbrod's Chambers like a deflated balloon, a shadow of his former self, no longer pugnacious, no longer confident of his power and strength – physically or psychologically; what one might call 'a broken man' and we cannot but wonder at what may have occurred within to debilitate him so – and yet, and yet, there is still an air of purpose in his movements, in his steps, perhaps simply the act of walking has brought him back to his sense of his own identity, for it is said, is it not, that once a man has acquired the regulation stride and pace of the Police Service (you see it is no longer a 'Force' and we are all 'Customers' and the crooks are all 'Persons of Interest' prior to Conviction or Assessment and afterwards, if found that they require a 'Period of Support', become 'Service Users' and the Jail in which they benefit from the Service is now a 'Support and Rehabilitation Centre', to help them get back on the Path towards Salvation) he will maintain that discipline for life, and Look! See! he seems to know just which direction to take and, as he crosses Parliament Square, the very Heart of Midlothian itself, his steps are unerring and lead him on a beeline, Eastward, until he comes to the venerable City Chambers of Edinburgh which he enters without breaking his stride – see, he is nodded through by Security Officers who clearly know him and defer to him – so there is no doubting that he is a man of Rank; hush, just once, he has glanced round to see if he is followed but we have put our heads together, seeming to consult a guide book and he is not interested in a chit of a girl (me) and her companion (you – whoever you are) and so he continues and slipping past the doorkeepers we track him along corridors, through doorways, down stairs, sticking to him like paper clips to a lodestone (when I worked for Edinburgh Council, oh, many years ago now, but not so many that you calculate my age too highly, every public counter was provided with just such a thing so that we poor girls who were from time to time deputed to staff the counter did not have to fret over where the paper clips might be, for they were always to hand – I always wanted a lodestone for myself but have yet to find, or receive one – hint, hint, nice idea for a birthday, eh?) and doubling back on himself as he descends further and further until he opens a large wooden door and steps out into broad daylight – of course! we have come out the Back Door and are now on Cockburn Street, holding back, for we do not want to bump into the imposing figure who actually blocks our way as he has stopped on the doorstep and is standing stock-still and looking up to his right, up towards the top of the Street, where my dear old Grannie used to shop at Patrick Thompson's (PT's was an institution with Edinburgh Ladies, but sadly both it and they are gone) hush! Can he feel our breath on the back of his neck? no, it seems not, for he has stepped across the pavement and the road to the other side and is entering a Public House – oh Lordy, Lord! it is The Malt Shovel, from which I have been barred ever since the 'Shocking Incident of the Knickers in the Lunchtime' which, to my eternal shame, made front page in The Sunday Post complete with a photograph which clearly showed my face and my rear, together with the name of the Pub above the door and is now kept behind the counter so that new bar staff can identify me if I show my face – or bottom; so – what to do? quite clearly I cannot enter and must remain outside, and will therefore be unable to report on any activity or conversation occurring within, while you, on the other hand, may freely enter, use your eyes and your ears and report back to me, that I may scribble my lines; which may not be strictly ethical, to report entirely hearsay, but we are not giving evidence in a Court of Law, so that which would be Inadmissible Evidence will, I feel, be quite OK with my Editor (she is my Cousin, after all, and quite prepared to give me a little licence from time to time, and surely this is truly a time for that) so – do not delay, get you into the pub and pin back your lug'oles, Dear Reader, and constellate what you may see and hear while I take a seat outside and make good use of my time by typing this morning's exploit into my Tablet and when you may, haste ye back to my side and fill me in before the sun reaches my post, for I am not much given to heliolatry and do not want another red face in the vicinity of this Pub!