There's always a certain amount of disruption when wintry weather strikes but in Edinburgh today the buses were doing their best to get around the city and most businesses seemed to be up and running.

I was disappointed to hear that tomorrow's celebrations in St Andrew's Square had been cancelled because of the wintry weather. That seemed a bit chicken-hearted to me but apparently "The snow has damaged two of the marquees, creating a potential public safety issue, " Well I don't want to be smothered by a collapsing marquee so I suppose I'll have to let them off for acting on the better safe than sorry principle.

The airport was closed at times and given the way my bus was sliding about at 15 miles an hour on a gritted road that was probably a sensible application of the better safe than sorry principle as well.

Why were the schools closed though? In rural areas where roads may well be impassable and people live quite far from their school you can see a reason for it. Who wants to be trapped overnight in a badly heated building with hundreds of kids and an inadequate handful of teachers. If ever there was a case for better safe than sorry then that's it.

But here in the city centre? I've had a look at the catchment area map for my local primary and the furthest point from the school can't be more than half an hour's walk even in snowy conditions. So the pupils could surely have got there. Travel problems for the teachers then, who may well live much further away. That hasn't stopped hundreds of other people getting to work. So what's at issue? Snowball fights in the playground endangering pupil safety? Greater potential for accidents? Something might go wrong so better safe than sorry and too bad for the parents who had to take a day off as a result?

But if we give the schools the benefit of the doubt we surely can't do the same for my local library, also closed because of adverse weather conditions according to a notice on its door. I am truly struggling to see how the weather impacts on a library. This one doesn't even open till 1pm on a Monday, so it's not as though overnight snow hadn't been totally cleared by the time the staff needed to set out from home.

It's the sort of mystery that give public services and public servants a bad name.

Looks like I've been well and truly had.

The consensus of those commenting on the royal wedding article that I posted about is that it's a spoof. They pick out a number of points that are giveaways for someone better acquainted with Marlborough College and/or popular culture than I am.

So hats off to i and The Independent. I may buy you again.

"Make no mistake, there is nothing grand about young Kate Middleton! Her parents may be multi-millionaires with a sprawling mansion in Berkshire, she may have been public school-educated, own her own London flat and take her holidays in Mustique but, beneath the surface, she is simply "our Kate", a modern girl like thousands of others."

I fear the paragraph above is not ironic. It is part of a wholly cringe inducing article that appears in the soi-disant new kind of newspaper i. You can read the whole nauseating piece in i's progenitor, The Independent.

I read it en route to a talk at the NLS by the author of Scott-land, a fascinating sounding book about Walter Scott. Much of the book I gather (in spite of the warm feelings aroused by the vino accompanying it's promotion I did not buy but shall wait till it's in the library before reading) is concerned with the remarkable influence that Scott has had culturally throughout the world over the last 180 years or so.

Part of his non-literary fame rests on his stage management of George IV's visit to Edinburgh in 1822 when he bigged up the king to the Scots and vice versa. I suspect the i's royal correspondent to be an acolyte of Scott in this respect if not in his prose style nor (hopefully) his cultural influence.

As you know I loved Disgo but there was another show at the Traverse this week that fear of the laws of libel prevented me from reviewing.

Joyce generously gives it two stars, thanks in all probability to the brownies which I agree were tasty.

She should come and see the Improbables who do improvisation a whole lot better.

As I sat at breakfast looking at the clear blue sky the radio declared that there would be rain in Scotland and that it would fall mostly in the east.

At lunchtime the weather forecast spoke again of rain in eastern Scotland. The sky was no longer predominantly blue but I had not yet seen rain.

At 5pm I was assured that the rain in eastern Scotland would ease in the course of the evening.

It is now after midnight and Edinburgh is as dry as a bone as it has been all day, though to be wholly truthful I cannot vouch for the period between 17.45 and 20.15 when I was at the cinema.

I draw no conclusions from this set of circumstances.

In these terror times we don't raise an eyebrow at an airport when asked to take off our shoes, but it is a little more unusual to be told - not even asked - to take off your shoes when about to take your seat in a theatre.

But that's how we were treated at the Traverse last night. Full of bonhomie engendered by the drink that had been liberally served at what the Trav luvvies called their wassail before the show, we the audience cheerfully complied. As the lights dimmed we were cajoled out of our seats onto the black performance space, ducking under the blue fluorescent light bearing bars that surrounded it as we went. For the ensuing hour or so a performance took place around, amongst and with us. We were cleverly marshalled here and there at times and at others were free to roam and frequently had to move smartly out of the way as a body slithered along the floor or gyrated across the space. We were incorporated into the performance when for example a dancer curled herself around a spectator's leg, leant on a shoulder or took two people by their waists and whisked them adroitly from one side to another through the crowd crying touch me, touch me to the rest of us. Some of the dancers were clearly identifiable as such by their clothes and where they appeared from at the start but others had been seated in the auditorium dressed normally so it wasn't always obvious who was performer and who was spectator. The show culminated with the audience grouped together in the centre of the acting area waving their arms in the air while the performers looked on.

It was great fun. Clearly about removing barriers between audience and performer Disgo didn't just breach the fourth wall but consigned it to oblivion along with the other three. I can't imagine how the job could be better done.

I know almost nothing about video games and I care even less. But that may be about to change for I am lending my voice to a video game modding project.

The little I do know about these games is that they seem to consist of trying to get from A to B while running about shooting, wielding swords, slicing the heads off people, fighting weird creatures, indulging in various sorts of derring do, and all to a deafening soundtrack.

This game, Dragon Age, looks to be from that mould since players are said to "engage in bone-crushing, visceral combat against massive and terrifying creatures". But there is perhaps something more subtle involved since they also "experience complex moral decisions".

I'm not sure if they make them or suffer the consequences of them. Both probably. Judging by the brief I have been given about my character he'll be in the thick of the moral decision making side of the game, but not above slicing off the odd head.

Here tis:

1. Ruggieri (Roo-jerry)

2. Character Acting Style:

Ruggieri is always concentrating and pondering. He has a warriors posture and resolve coupled with the wisdom and experience of his age. As such, he always stands with his chest out but is never too forceful in his posture. His face is always calm and dictating. He uses soft and short physical movements when walking or making gestures.

3. Number of lines: To be determined

4. Character Role:

Ruggieri is sort of the father Farinata never had. He loved her mother very much and acts as a guardian for Farinata and Neona due to the death of both their parents. Ruggieri often helps calm Farinata’s rage and embues (sic) her with a sense of morality and understanding throughout troubled times.

5. Male, 44, Dalish. Calmly spoken, always encouraging.

6. Character Personality:

Ruggieri has a warm dismeanor (sic) that makes him very approachable. He’s dealt with a lot of pain in his life but somehow still came out an optimist.

7. Character Voice:

Ruggieri has a warm and calming voice. He can generally talk someone out of any rage induced fit. He thinks before speaking so his comments are always calm and concise.

8. Character Background:

Ruggieri was desperately in love with Farinata’s mother before the sisters were born. Farinata’s mother chose a human male instead and it ate away at Ruggieri over the years. Since then, he has had to care for the sisters from nearly toddlers and is constantly reminded of his loss in love for their mother. While he doesn’t tell them about these things, he knows Farinata is at least somewhat aware of the past.

9. Character Story Arc:

Ruggieri is taking care of Neona throughout the entirety of the game until the end when they are attacked by the Darkspawn and Neona is killed. He then relates the news to Farinata which triggers the last event, rage-filled Farinata slaughters the Darkspawn at Hunter Fell.

10. Dialogue Samples:

“Farinata, this war is going to be more costly than you can imagine. Are you sure you want to seek out the Grey Wardens?”

Delivery: Concerned comment, worrisome/concerned

Situation: Ruggieri asking Farinata to reconsider searching out the Grey Wardens to fight the Darkspawn.

“The Grey Wardens need your skills Farinata, no one can conquer the Darkspawn alone.”

Delivery: Debate on the issue of humans handling their own problems. Encouraging/steadfast

Situation: Ruggieri relates the importance of everyone working together despite racial differences in order to survive.

“We were attacked again at Kal-Sharok....their (sic) were too many Fari...I’m....I’m sorry.”

Delivery: Emotional breakdown, nearly crying/ashamed

Situation: Ruggieri reveals to Farinata that her only living family is dead.

I can't wait to get that armour on and stick my chest out.

I saw an interesting programme on the box this evening tracing the history of Donald Trump's campaign to build "the greatest golf course in the world", not to mention a hotel, apartment blocks and hundreds of houses on the coastal dunes just north of Aberdeen.

It's taken four years but he's overcome almost all obstacles and work has started. I say almost because there are still two pieces of land that he wants but which the owners refuse to sell. The threat of compulsory purchase hangs over them and I have little doubt that Trump will ultimately prevail.

The glimpses inside his Manhattan apartment and private jet afforded by the programme indicate something of a Louis 14th lifestyle and three wives suggests a nod towards Henry the 8th but he seemed a nice enough chap and by all accounts he loved his teuchter mum from Stornoway. So it's a combination of big businessman ambition and sentiment that's the driving force behind the project. Your guess as to the proportions of each.

A small golf course could maybe have nestled in there without doing much damage but I think the scale of the development will completely spoil the area. The saving grace may be that, as an Aberdeenshire friend of mine said, no-one will be mad enough, given the climate, to live in the place.

The solemnity of a day like remembrance Sunday can cause one’s thoughts to get a bit mixed up and words to come slightly out of order.

I’m sure that must have happened to the lady whose email arrived just after the two minutes silence. Going by the name of 2HotRebecca she invited me to visit her on a website. She assured me that access was free of charge but cautioned that “They make you join to verify your age.”

Verification of my age is I think assured by the fact that I didn’t take up the little poppet's invitation.

In my earliest days at primary school an essential tool for writing and drawing was a slate. These were much in evidence when on Friday I visited Scotland Street school, one of Rennie Mackintosh's fine buildings that is now a museum showing the school life of yesteryear.

I went round the museum with an object in my hands that was extraordinarily like a slate and which had writing and drawings on it. But this was an Ipad and I was participating in a site specific theatrical presentation called Alma Mater developed by Fish and Game and presented as part of a get together of the International network for contemporary performing arts.

The drawings were technically speaking a video, and I was led around the building by a series of children who appeared on the screen. It was a bit weird to walk along a corridor following a child who was in the video image of the corridor but wasn't in the real corridor and to encounter other members of the virtual school community in various situations.

It was entertaining and enjoyable, but keeping an eye on the screen and on the real world at the same time (to avoid tripping on the stairs for example) meant that I didn't think much about what it was all in aid of, i.e. its artistic purpose!

Fortunately I had a handout that I read afterwards that spelt it all out. It's quite long so I'll just quote wee bits of it:

"....Alma Mater follows children learning how to behave, resisting their own playful, carnal desires and submitting to the world of adults. ......Mackintosh employed images of growth up through the vertical levels of the school......the film echoes this growth both in the size of the children's bodies and in the accumulation of knowledge gained on the journey through the school...."

At the Traverse earlier in the week Wedekind's Spring Awakening also put slates to good use but here the children were not resisting their playful, carnal desires and the poor dears paid the price.

The Guardian review gave it four stars and I will admit to having admired the staging (apart from the tedious back and fro of the big blackboard) and the capabilities of the actors but I just didn't engage with the piece at all, probably because whatever adolescent angst I experienced has vanished into the mists of time and the shock value of the play along with it.

Maybe the rock musical version would have got me scribbling on my slate with more enthusiasm.

The other day I moaned about the distribution of The Edge of Dreaming. The film-maker has contacted me to let me know that it is showing at the Eden Court in Inverness this weekend.

Unfortunately I am not free to attend but others may be, especially since after seeing the film on Saturday you can take part in a dream workshop on Sunday. Here is the description from the Eden Court website:

"The director is offering a special space for people to engage with film in a new and personal way. The Edge of Dreaming is a documentary that takes us into the dreams of an ordinary woman, a rational, busy mother of three who doesn't have time to remember her dreams. But when they come, shockingly, true, she begins to explore the interface between dreams and neuroscience. The results are startling and profound.

The film has a lot of space for the audience to bring in their own perspective and this workshop is an opportunity to bring your own experiences to understanding gained through the film. There are a maximum of twelve places for people to take part in this 2 hour workshop the day after the screening as a group, we will work with your own dreams, fears and life experience, engaging with it further through story. "

This would be just the ticket for a blogging friend of mine who has been going on about her dreams a lot recently.

One of my dreams when I'm awake is that one day I will be a good golfer. The nightmare is that the summer has shown, as did the previous summer, that I am just getting worse. I have decided to take matters in hand this winter. Normally I eschew the practice range but there is a deal in town where senior lads and lassies get a basket of balls, a cup of coffee, a plate of biscuits and some tuition on a Thursday morning for only 50p more than the cost of the balls themselves.

I tried it out this morning. The other oldies were a cheerful group and the coffee and biscuits were excellent. What's more, and after watching me for only a couple of minutes, the pro made a small change to my swing that gave a much better result. So I'll be back. Had it not been raining I'd have played nine holes on the adjacent course but you have to draw the athletic line somewhere.

On the way home I passed an LRT bus vaunting an improved exhaust system with the cheerful and imaginative slogan that I might make my own - "auld but not reekie".

Homework for my Spanish class was to prepare something about national stereotypes so being a thoroughly modern schoolboy I turned to the internet for inspiration and information.

I found this amusing set of maps showing how the world looks from different points of view.

I was very dismissive of Inception, mostly because it was little more than lots of people running about in various places shooting at one another, but partly because of its absurd premise about infiltrating people's dreams.

Nonetheless I find dreams and dreaming intriguing so I was very interested to hear the other day about a film documenting the film-maker's experience of dreaming that she was going to die and subsequently falling ill and coming within an inch or two of fulfilling the dream. It's a Scottish film by a local film-maker and it premiered at the Edinburgh Film Festival in June, although I wasn't aware of it then, so it is not a little annoying to find that a DVD is available in the USA but not here. To find further that one can watch the film on-line but not with a Scottish IP address adds to that annoyance.

No doubt it is all to do with money. I would feel more charitable towards Amy Hardie's escape from death if the film had been made available here before it went on to rake in the dollars. But it is about to be released in cinemas in the UK and I very much hope that it will return to the city of its birth so that I can see The Edge of Dreaming.

I must have been on the edge of dreaming this evening when at Fort Kinnaird I found myself going frenchwise round a roundabout. I blame the complicated layout of those commercial centres.