Next stop was Edinburgh. The stage, Holyrood House; the play, ‘A Sleepover with the Lord High Commissioner of The Church of Scotland.’ Not that I was sleeping with His Grace, in fact I was able to choose whether or not I slept with my husband as he was allocated a small room with a single bed overlooking the inner courtyard and I had the palatial accommodation with the double bed and view of Arthur’s Seat. Corridor creeping was rife, not I fear, in an Edwardian house-party sense, but because 16th century palaces are not equipped with en-suite bathrooms. Woe betide those who forgot a dressing gown. Various costume changes were required from smart casual on arrival, to evening dress with best jewellery, to something with a hat for the communion service on Monday morning. Brightly coloured millinery, being unsuitable, I unearthed a battered black number which was relegated to the back of the wardrobe in case I was ever asked to a Royal funeral. With a small addition of some white ribbon, some judicious steaming with the kettle lid open and I was ready for curtain up. I think I remembered my lines. It was not an occasion for the ad-lib.