I go into a charity shop (The Chest, Heart and Stroke Association, on Clarkston Road, opposite the Couper) and discover that they are selling a genuine, gold Rolex watch for just £30. I run about and procrastinate a little, before going back in to buy it. I take a £50 out of my pocket, and, to my embarrassment, it turns into a £4 note. To add insult to injury, the price of the watch goes up to £237.
I am in a large house, in a town west of Edinburgh, where the Beatles are said to have lived. As I turn left, I find a room in which George Martin is allowing people to make karaoke recordings of the Beatles' hits. I join the queue, watch someone do Let It Be and then offer £10 to be allowed to do A Day In The Life. Everything goes silent, George Martin takes my money, and runs out of the house. I run after him, but he shoots down the road in an open-top jeep. I return, dejected, to the house, where the real George Martin is being beaten senseless by a vigilante-crime-fighting-überpolis. I am pleased.