I'm occasionally given cause to cringe from the  repercussions of what I commit to the public domain. In alluding to Patricia Cornwell's demented vendetta against the late Walter Sickert, I gave Spencer the opportunity to peel the scab from a wound I'd considered healed. Passing his room this morning as he talked on the telephone, I overheard a snatch of his conversation: "Remember Hamilton thought Patricia Cornwell was coming to Drumfeld?" he crowed, his face locked in a rictus of malevolent glee. Overwhelmed by the memory, he then doubled over and emitted a series of guttural 'whoops': anyone unfamiliar with Spencer's response to a situation he considers humorous might have assumed that his room had been leased for the purpose of a seal cull. By the time I made my way back to my own room, he was helpless with laughter, pounding the floor with one palm in the manner of a wrestler imploring his opponent to yield.

On the 12th of November, 2004, an awards ceremony hosted by the Scottish Labour Party at Edinburgh's Prestonfield House Hotel was rather spoiled by an act of wilful fire-raising. At approximately two a.m. an alarm was raised that curtains in the hotel's reception area had been set alight. As staff members extinguished the flames, they were alerted to an identical offence in a lounge known as the Yellow Room. Fortunately, this  was also dealt with before it blossomed into an inferno. The arsonist, however, made good his escape, stepping into the chill of the Edinburgh evening amidst the  throng of departing guests.

The next day, the front pages of Scottish newspapers were dominated by a ghostly image captured by the hotel's internal security cameras. The kilted man responsible for the fire-raising appeared in a succession of pictures. In the first, crouching at the foot of the curtains, in the second, walking quickly away from the nascent conflagration and in the third (and perhaps most sinister) returning moments later to check on its progress. As the picture quality was poor and male guests were almost uniformly clad in formal Highland attire, it was impossible to positively identify the figure. One improbable suspect, however, was already the subject of dark speculation by staff and fellow guests.

As he came to on the morning of November the 13th, one can only surmise as to how much Michael Watson, or, to give him his full title, Lord Watson of Invergowrie, recalled of the previous night. By all accounts, he had behaved churlishly from the evening's outset, his escalating belligerence finally causing bar staff to refuse to serve him any more alcohol. I've seen my brother subjected to a similar snub on more occasions that I care to mention. The difference between Lord Watson and Spencer, it goes without saying, is that my brother is accustomed to being the cause of irritation and disappointment. Their response to rejection in this case, I suspect, was similar: a chaotic succession of emotions encompassing embarrassment, indignation and excruciating shame. The last of these was in all likelihood pre-dominant as Watson, chastened and hungover, struggled to reconstruct fragments of recollection into a coherent whole. "I'm sure there was something else," he might have muttered to himself, cringing from the insinuating shadows clustered around the periphery of his consciousness, still oblivious to the full horror that awaited him on the front page of his newspaper.

"A moment of madness" is often cited in instances of inconceivable folly. In Michael Watson's case, this seems completely inadequate. His years of public service instantaneously forgotten, he was reborn in the public consciousness as a skulking, nebulous figure, casting a backward glance toward his potentially murderous handiwork. For months he protested his innocence until, overwhelmed by the evidence against him, he changed his plea midway through his trial in order to negotiate a reduced sentence of sixteen months, of which he served eight. He has subsequently returned to the House of Lords,but his contributions have, understandably, been minimal.

It would be an overstatement to suggest that poltergeist activity has become a significant on-line menace. Most social-networking sites and independent safety watch-dogs are, quite rightly, preoccupied with the dangers presented by sexual predators, con-men and bullies. It's interesting, though, that in the wake of the Caroline Haan affair described in my last post, administrators of both Facebook and MySpace confessed to having consulted exorcists (though I'm not sure if the ritual was actually performed or, indeed, how.) Nearly every aspect of the Haan phenomena, of course, might be attributed to pranksters. While decent people find it inconceivable that anyone would assume the identity of a recently deceased friend with no purpose other than to frighten mutual acquaintances, the seasoned investigator recognises that human malignancy is often most pronounced in trivial endeavours. I've not entirely abandoned my initial suspicion that human agents were responsible, but various factors continue to confound me. The inability to trace the source of Haan's messages is the most significant of these but equally troubling is the gradual decomposition apparent in her icon pictures and the co-incidental misfortunes endured by those 'befriended' by her.

Astonishingly, the most worthwhile study into haunted websites has been conducted by 'celebrity' psychic, Ronald Hawthorne. As regular readers might recall, I've little time for Hawthorne's antics.  Banished from the salons of Mayfair after being identified as a persistent source of gossip column fodder, he was reduced to trawling crime scenes, a vocation for which he had neither the sight nor the stomach. His technique never varied. On arrival, having attracted sufficient attention, he would sink to his knees, never missing his strategically placed towel, clutch his temples and softly gibber while his 'personal physician' took notes. These performances invariably conluded with Hawthorne, completely overwhelmed, screaming and gnawing on his trademark beret. Eventually rendered housebound by the accumulative effects of trauma and disgrace, he devoted himself to the investigation that might yet rescue his reputation from the peculiarly British purgatory reserved for spivs and poltroons.

Hawthorne identified seven hundred and fifty six instances of what he referred to as "inexplicable phenomena", mainly websites or messages without a logical source. He considered fifty seven of these "potentially harmful" and twenty-three "unequivocally malign". Of the latter, he was particularly concerned by the circulation of an unidentified picture unsuspecting recipients of which, he feared, "are in grave danger." Several paintings exist with evil reputations, but I have a hunch that he's referring to Oswald Perrin's 'Hilary'. It's unfashionable to advocate the destruction of art-works, but nothing produced in a malevolent spirit can do anything other than replicate that ill-feeling in others. Perrin's apparently unremarkable portrait of his sister has been associated with illness, suicide and murder. One former owner reportedly suffered a seizure after the subject of the picture suddenly raised her head and stepped toward him. Others claim that Perrin himself lurks somewhere in the painting's periphery. The original was destroyed in a house fire in Dublin in 1970 and, while prints are rare, I know of several that remain in circulation.  Without wishing to cause undue panic, I'd strongly recommend that anyone receive such a picture (or, indeed, anything else that causes them instinctive unease) delete it immediately.

Some might consider it prissy, but it's been my lifelong habit to retreat to a toilet or, at the very least, leave the room before breaking wind. My sense of humour is robust but, frankly, I would as soon expose myself as playfully subject my company to my feculence. Christine and Spencer attribute my fastidiousness to the influence of our Grandfather Sneddon (as, indeed, they do many of my personality traits they consider peculiar.) Certainly, with the benefit of hindsight, Grandpa's aversion to flatulence seems indicative of what what Muriel knowingly refers to as 'issues'. The mildest of whiffs was sufficient to trigger an instantaneous transformation from jollity to nostril-flaring rage. At my fifth birthday party, having identified a bewildered Billy Ure as the source of an insidiously pungent odour, he threatened to confine him within my sister's rabbits' hutch reasoning that, "if he wants to act like an animal, he'll be treated like one." Only my mother's intervention prevented Grandpa from making good his threat. The image of Billy's tear stained face, plaintively protesting his innocence still hovers around the periphery of my conscience. More than thirty years on, I blush to acknowledge responsibility for the impropriety. An analyst might argue that repressed guilt has contributed to my own subsequent attitudes: having spent a lifetime examining humanity at its most egregious, I still wince before even typing the word "fart".

The latter part of Grandpa's life was beset by various health problems. My sister frequently attributes the mild intestinal disorder that left him at the mercy of involuntary lapses to 'poetic justice'. His unfailing response to this recurring mortification was to excuse himself from the company and, at the first opportunity send a written apology to his hosts. It should be noted that these displays of self-abasement often provoked more concern than the original offence. Unless the circumstances are particularly inappropriate, etiquette demands nothing more than an acknowledgement and sincere verbal apology.

Early in our acquaintance, I injudiciously mentioned to Rob McCaskill that, as an occasional childhood treat, my grandfather had taken me to Ibrox Park to watch Rangers. Rob, determined to engage me in 'banter', seized on this with the hopeless tenacity of a senile dog gnawing a discarded slipper it imagines to be a bone. “Not such a great weekend for the Gers, H,” he'd crow if Rangers had been beaten while their successes prompted a request that I refrain from “any of that sectarian nonsense* or you'll have Big Malky** to answer to.” With hindsight, it might have been better to stick to my guns but it was easier to continue to respond to Rangers' triumphs and failures with muted pantomimes of jubilation and dismay. The charade came to an abrupt and mortifying end when special guest, Dr Bluenose, smirkingly introduced by Rob an “expert on alcohol related offences” turned out to be former Rangers player, Andy Goram. “It's the bloody Goalie , Hamilton!” shouted Rob when it became apparent, even to him, that my confusion was genuine. “But he doesn't know what he's talking about,” I hissed, as bewildered by our guest's meaningless nickname as I had been by his ignorance of his purported realm of expertise.

PASSION – Word formerly synonymous with ardour and conviction, now commonly misused to condone absence of restraint. In the past ‘passionate' people were recognised by an inner glow, today they tend to be ill-mannered and violent advocates of idiotic causes.

In 1916, W.B. Yeats, having been rejected by Maud Gonne and her daughter Iseult*, proposed to Bertha Hyde-Lees (familiarly known as Georgie). If Yeats was hoping that one or other of the Gonnes, dismayed by the prospect of his imminent unavailability, would finally surrender to his advances, he was to be disappointed. If anything, both seemed relieved by the transfer of his affections. Worse still, Georgie unexpectedly accepted his proposal with the consequence that within months the poet, chagrined and bewildered, found himself honeymooning with a woman whose very presence was a source of irritation. Having already used Georgie shabbily, Yeats, whose advanced years came without the compensation of sensitivity or experience, had little compunction about confessing the cause of his unhappiness. Understandably bemused by developments, Georgie struggled to compose her thoughts by writing them down. Distracted by Yeats's self absorbed interruptions, it suddenly occurred to her that, while she continued to write, the words no longer came of her own volition - she was merely a conduit for some other source of inspiration. Pointing out to her husband the vaguely promising sentiments "With the bird all is well at heart" and "You will neither regret nor repine" she triggered an obsession that would dominate the rest of their lives.

In 1923, A.A. Milne wrote Vespers, a whimsical account of his infant son, Christopher Robin, at prayer. "Mr Milne crept in and watched for a few moments," remembered Christopher's nanny, presenting a slightly sinister picture of the doting father. "Then I heard him going away down the stairs chuckling as if he was very pleased about something." The poem, published later that year in Vanity Fair, was well received and Milne, determined to capitalise on its success, immediately started work on the poems that would appear in the volume When We Were Very Young.

It's fitting, perhaps, that the bulk of these poems were drafted over the course of an otherwise disastrous holiday at a country house in North Wales. Bad weather kept the Milnes confined to the house and Milne, whose manner could be prissy and superior, managed to antagonise their fellow guests. Even the butler made a point of serving him last at every meal. When the family eventually left, their car was surrounded by a happy throng eager to herald their departure with a chant of "The Milnes are leaving, Hurray! Hurray!' This memory must have remained with Christopher Robin, though any lasting psychological damage inflicted was to be overshadowed by the creative fruits of the hours his father spent skulking in his room.

In 1698, Peter the Great returned from his first visit to Western Europe intent on modernising Russia. His reforming zeal became apparent almost immediately as officials and boyars gathered to welcome him home were subjected to on the spot shaves. The twenty-first century reader might consider such behaviour inhospitable and eccentric. To seventeenth century Russians, most of whom had inherited the opinion of Ivan the Terrible that "to shave the beard is a sin that the blood of all the martyrs cannot cleanse", it was an inconceivable affront. Unmoved by his boyars' anguish, Peter persisted in his campaign against the hirsute, employing Ivan Turgenev, his court fool, as a barber and, on occasion, tugging off particularly intransigent beards with his own hands. Having exposed the hitherto hidden faces within the Kremlin, Peter imposed a general proscription excepting only peasants and clergy. This ban was eventually relaxed and a Beard Tax introduced with a scale of payment according to means. Merchants paid up to two hundred roubles for the bronze medallion that entitled the bearer to ape the appearance of his ancestors. Anyone flaunting an illicit beard lived in constant dread of discovery. Scofflaws had the unlicensed growth removed without benefit of emollients or even water, a painful and humiliating procedure invariably endured before a jeering mob.

Over the years, I’ve been subjected to various false death rumours, most of which can be traced back to my brother. To  my certain knowledge, he has informed eight separate people (including our parents) of my demise by causes ranging from plane crash to cerebral haemorrhage. When I returned from my last (aborted) American lecture tour, my appearance in the Drumfeld Spar caused pandemonium among fellow shoppers convinced that I'd perished on the Pacific Coast Highway. Most recently, he collaborated with Rob McAskill in perpetrating a staggeringly tasteless April Fool.  Jeff Goldblum, I’m sure, will be reassured that I have not committed suicide (and certainly not for the reasons speculated on McAskill’s spoof ‘tribute’)  though I remain convinced that the stress induced by the necessity of refuting the broadcast contributed to a complete breakdown of my immune system from which I'm only just recovering.   

Last week I was informed that Muriel has been studying the 'career' of Callander medium, Helen Duncan, with a view to preparing a retrospective defence against her 1944 prosecution under the Witch-craft Act. Guided by the promptings of their history teacher, Megan Perry, the class has unanimously concluded that Duncan was the victim of prejudice and should be posthumously exonerated. A project borne of stupidity, then, lumbers inexorably toward a fat-headed conclusion. Many readers, I'm sure, will be familiar with the mythology of Duncan's prosecution. It's widely assumed that she was tried after inadvertently jeopardising national security by materialising the spirit of a sailor from H.M.S. Barham before the ship's destruction was common knowledge. This, in fact, occurred three years earlier in 1941. Duncan was actually charged with Vagrancy, Larceny and 'falsely pretending that she was in a position to bring about the appearances of the spirits of deceased persons.' Section Four of the Witchcraft Act WAS cited in her prosecution, but by the 20th Century, this was almost exclusively used against imposters. Nobody involved in Duncan's prosecution believed in her ability to materialise the dead. Portsmouth's chief of police went so far as to dismiss her as "an unmitigated humbug and a pest." It wasn't suspicion of witch-craft that appalled the authorities but the brazen cynicism with which they considered her to have exploited the bereaved.

I've always considered early January to be the most dispiriting part of the year. All that remains of Christmas are the remnants of trees, dumped in gutters like the corpses of deposed monarchs. However plump and luxuriant in mid-December, every last one is destined to be unceremoniously removed via a back door and left for the cleansing department. Can anyone passing their sodden remains avoid pondering how closely the existence of a Christmas tree resembles that of a man? The baubles of accomplishment can only distract us from the fact that whatever triumphs we might enjoy are fleeting. As the year dies, we find ourselves forlorn and without purpose. The gifts piled beneath our branches have been found wanting and discarded. The laughter over which we presided turns into the roar of the incinerator. Nothing remains but regret for what might have been!