Susan Morrison

They’re digging up Great Junction Street again. There’s a rumour running round the Kirkgate that there’s pirate treasure under the wee Tesco on the corner, but the woman who told me that also once assured me that the late Queen was her half-sister and that she’d had an affair with Elton John.

The kitchen is complete. Well, nearly. We still have to paint and there’s the tricky matter of what goes where. This is causing minor points of friction between those in the family who use the kitchen as a place to actually cook, and the one person who really just gets allowed in to eat food and source gin. That would be me.

Love a house makeover show, me. Nothing like watching a pile of goodhearted tradespeople called Jim the Sparky and Les the Plumber under the direction of a designer called Peony rebuild a bedroom for less that £10 – and all held together by a whimsical twinkly-eyed chap called Nick or Tommy, ever ready with a self-deprecating quip.

Naturally the beach at Whitby is awash with dogs. I nearly stood on one. Tiny little brown thing. Honestly, I could hardly see it.

Ah well, that’s the Fringe well over and it's back to auld claes and porridge. The cats have welcomed me back home. By “welcome” I mean “completely ignore”.

The tram was packed. The conductor shoved his way towards me. He glanced at my pass, looked up and said “Cruise ship”

There’s an excellent exhibition up at the National Museum of Scotland on Chambers Street called ‘Scotland and the Cold War’. It's well worth a visit.

Well, venues have been infamously hot during past torrid Augusts. Quite frankly, my dear, at my age I can barely tolerate indoor temperatures higher than lukewarm milk. I carry a fan and I’m not afraid to use it. One stuffy room and I’m the original hot mess. So, I thought, let’s have a walk and have a laugh. Learn a bit of filthy history and get your step count up. Why, it’s practically a public service. Well, yes, but only if the audience isn’t battling exposure. I’m looking anxiously at the l…

Election time! We haven’t had an election, for, oh, ages. There was a time, remember, when we were never away from the polling booth.

For my sixty-fifth birthday the NHS gave me a scan. Very thoughtful. Useful and functional. I like that. Not for all presents, mind.