I'd have played a prank on you - if I had remembered!

It's quite amazing the amount of detail you note when you need to keep pace with a slow walker like Tatatoes. The frequent pauses he has to make to let his legs rest make you look around and admire, as well as giving you license to get into conversation with people you would normally not have the time to engage with.

To avoid walking, we bought tourist bus tickets and travelled around the city. The day was cold, windy and glorious, so as usual I insisted on going to the sea. In Newhaven the sea was showing its real colours, brown rather than blue, the high waves preventing the sky from mirroring itself in the water. Tatatoes wondered at the tiny boats, tossed this way and that in the harbour, its small mouth enough to let in the commotion of the bay beyond. We had to brace ourselves against the gusts in order to admire the view; you could see far, far away, to the bridges and beyond, towards the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

Newhaven bay moored tiny boats.

The Forth bridges.

Speaking of which, the snowfall of the last two days had one glorious effect of covering all of the Pentland hills, making them into a breath-taking backdrop for the city. I forced Tatatoes and Tlanatoes to climb to the very top of the Royal Mile so that we could admire them in their luminous splendour. They are the perfect city hills – small enough to be conquerable, and big enough to take make your imagination soar.

The snowy Pentland hills.

Surely there is a simple algorithm which calculates the daily increase in density of tourist traffic on the Royal Mile as a corollary of the day's length. Tatatoes pointed out that the Asian tourists, renowned for their incessant photo-snapping, seem to have become much more chilled out. It is true, I can hardly remember seeing one technology-heavy small-boned Asian, in a floppy hat and sunglasses, weighed down to the ground by the sheer weight of their gadgets, and never taking their eyes off the screens to actually have a look around. They seem to be enjoying themselves nowadays, strolling on the streets – buying things even! A true cultural change.

Easter was in the air. A lonely piper was making noise on the Mile, and I got into a long, music-centred conversation with him, only to e rewarded by a good ten minutes of diverse melodies, from Highland ballads to real dance pieces.

A man and his pipes.

I have never actually made the effort to stop and listen to what bagpipe music sounds like; I can see how, especially after a few vodkas, especially in a murky, wooden room, especially on a winter's night, its wailing, pipe organ-like sound would be appealing. I admired the elegance and naturalness with which the piper wore his kilt, too; especially the shiny black shoes, with their intricate lacing, caught my interest, perhaps I'll be able to photograph them another time.

We were making our way home when, suddenly, on the steps leading to the National Gallery, we were surrounded by, well, clowns! I had completely forgotten it was Prima Aprilis, the 1st of April, and this happy group was playing a universal prank by looking jolly. I can't believe it had slipped my mind, I used to be good at pulling people's leg!

The happy clown gang!

Fortunately there were no pranksters in the Fisher's restaurant where we went for dinner. I was excited about this, my third, visit to the restaurant – the second time was a bit of a letdown, but I was sure it was just a misunderstanding. My instinct was right, and we had a wonderful hedonistic evening. The eighteen oysters we shared between the three of us were impeccable, cold, salty, meaty, and so full of flavour I would sit back and close my eyes as I was chewing them so that not to miss one ounce of gourmet pleasure. The wine, a Rully Burgundy 2007, mirrored the fresh saltiness and acidity of the oysters perfectly, and added a its own tongue-full of sensations. For main we had lobsters, as fresh as they could be, caught right across the street in the Fife. They were smaller than their Atlantic cousins, but sweet and juicy; I'm afraid the conversation practically died for a good half hour as with absolute glee I worked my way through every single limb in search of pockets of flavour. Home-made vanilla ice cream was the final, perfect touch. As we were leaving the head waiter looked at me and said – 'I remember your face, you've been here before!'. Oh yes, and I will certainly keep coming back.