She's such a sweetie is Miss Rivers

I'D never met Joan Rivers before. So I was thrilled (she made it seem she was thrilled, like Americans do) when we met by chance stepping into the Balmoral Hotel early Saturday evening.

She was about to go into the lift with two minders when I breezed up to her. "Miss Rivers, a real pleasure to shake your hand, I've been stealing some of your best lines for years. It's called plagiarism, as you well know."

Diminutive (dinky might be the word), she's remarkably "less tall" in person than she looks on screen or stage.

Lady-like, Miss Rivers, all smiles, responded: "Thank you and I'm glad to meet you, too."

What a terribly charming woman. You could take her home to your mother.

Hell in the streets

It's hell out there, I tell you, sheer bloody hell. Are you mingling on Princes Street and its environs right now? Touristy types, students (tomorrow's intelligentsia) who stick out a mile and mindlessly block your path, and assorted vagabonds. All ganging up to get our backs up.

True entertainment, authentic stuff, again spills from the brass ensemble from St Petersburg. "Please give generously and support our shell-shocked brothers in Georgia." Untrue. The St Peter lads were rattling off Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underwear as I passed on the arms of two paramedics dispensing oxygen. Yes, our city's at the mercy of Genghis Khan's reservists.

Steel shines alone

Fodder for people-watchers, these publishers' parties. Newington-based Birlinn threw theirs in the New Town, pitching their tent in Moray Place Gardens. The air's rare there.

A motley crew turned up for the refreshments and some quality jazz vocals from the band tucked away in a corner on a fine autumnal evening.

Names ticked off at the gate and the literati included Trevor Royle, Jenny Brown, Robbie Grigor, Glen Michael (Glen Michael?) and abune them a' and taller with every Festival, Roddy Martine.

Shining a bright light on the event, David Steel's tie. "It was a gift from the Royal Commonwealth Society for speaking at their Christmas lunch," Sir David told me. He was on his own, wife Judy marooned in the Borders, having broken her ankle.