A Coffin For Two

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‘Senor Oz! Are you there, please?’

I don’t believe that I sighed a lot in Scotland. I like to think that if someone asked me something, or if the phone rang, I answered as quickly and as pleasantly as I could.

Of course there were exceptions, like the time my mobile went off on the bedside cabinet just when I thought that my girlfriend Tomorrow — she was called Alison really — was about to lose her nickname at last. She gasped, under my skilled and delicate touch. She gasped again. Her eyes widened, and as they did, something else seemed to narrow. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘Is this it?’ she whispered. And then Mr Motorola sang his shrill, insistent wee song. The moment was gone, never to return.

I remember sighing then. Truth is, I remember swearing.

But by and large, the Edinburgh version of Osbert Blackstone was a happy, obliging soul, who never minded being disturbed, and who was always glad to see a pal.

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