With Karen and Lee, friends who had journeyed up from York, we headed off to my favourite Edinburgh pub - the Wally Dug. I have no idea why it is called the Wally Dug - perhaps because it is located down stone steps in the basement of a corner terrace, a low-ceilinged 'dug-out', with kitsch Scottish themed sketches hung between the shelves of books, two small rooms and a nook. This is Karen and Lee in the nook under a typical winter scene:
The last time I was in the Wally Dug - about four years ago - I met a delightfully eccentric elderly gentleman, evidently from a very upper class background who had subsequently fallen on hard times, with whom I enjoyed a nonsensical conversation about stag hunting. I was hoping he still might be propping up the bar, but no such luck ...
At dinner at the Stac Polly restaurant, I fulfilled my mission to have haggis. It was a bit weird because it came served in wonton cases. Perhaps to satisfy the local Asian population. I must confess I was expecting the more traditional accompaniments of neeps, tatties and gravy. But it was delicious - I think I must cook haggis before I leave here - maybe serve it to my unsuspecting guests and pretend it's minced meat?
When I spotted a hair salon above Stac Polly one of my major dilemmas was solved - getting my hair done. Instinct, or perhaps visual evidence, told me the local village barber, should there be such a person, just might not have the touch I'm used to from my Sydney man, Tony.
I carried on my person the exact formula, courtesy of Tony, for mixing my hair colour (yes, sorry to dismay you, I am not a natural blondish brunette). On presenting this to Charles, who has owned the salon for 37 years, he seemed both impressed and taken aback - and it became clear that there is a certain amount of professional jealousy amongst the international hair community.
"Oh, I always give my customers their hair colour formula when they go away, too," he said, in a tone which implied that most hairdressers would not dream of such generosity, and that he wasn't going to be 'one-upped' by some upstart colourist in Sydney.
Despite the fact that I had instructed that 'just the roots' be tinted, there then followed a lengthy Q&A which went something like this, which is - apropos the Pocket Oxford Dictionary - the abbreviated version:
'Do you nay have the colour combed throo?"
'No, never."
"Ahh .... are ye sure? That's vairy strange."
'Um, quite sure."
"Are ye sure you dunna get some highlights done? Most of my ladies have theirs done every two or three visits." At this point I suspected that he suspected that I didn't actually know what my hairdresser did.
"No, no highlights, it just turns out this way."
"That's vairy strange."
"Maybe it looks tinted because I get more sun on it?"
"Och aye, that must be it!"
I could tell that he was not convinced about the ways of hairdressers in Sydney, and the tilt of his chin indicated he firmly believed he was superior and indeed had the upperhand in the rivalry that had just developed between himself and Tony.
I was served a cup of Earl Grey tea and a specaloo biscuit. I finished my book and donated it to the salon, Adrian Mole: The Prostate Years which is probably not recommended reading for any bloke 40+ but Charles seemed delighted to have a copy.
Charles has kept my colour formula on file - I may return before Christmas. I left a large tip for Gemma, who was the one who actually did all my work.
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