THANK heavens for large mercies, such as the Scottish Parliament limiting itself to discussing emergency services rather than running them. Judging by the disgracefully long time it took for Holyrood to suspend business on Wednesday as Westminster came under attack and the horror of what was happening became all too clear, one could call a Scottish Parliament ambulance on a Saturday and still be sitting there, coat on, a fortnight later.
The week that began with people complaining that security measures were too tight – no laptops or tablets on flights from six countries, including Turkey – ended with questions over whether they were tight enough. While there may be ways security at Westminster (and Holyrood) can be improved, absolute safety can never be wholly guaranteed for anyone.
If one was to cut one’s cloth according to attacks in Glasgow, London, Paris, Nice, Berlin, Bali, Mumbai or elsewhere, one would not fly, go to concerts, take public transport, stay in a hotel, work in an office, go shopping, or simply walk down the street, as most of the victims in London were doing. We have to settle on some way of living in a state of perpetual, low-tech war waged by individuals beyond reach of reason. The alternative is a miserable life spent looking over our collective shoulder.
Being charitable, we could put the one hour 20 minute delay at Holyrood down not to incompetence or shock but to a determination to do what it says on the mugs and the T-shirts. Keeping calm and carrying on will, if nothing else, annoy the bejesus out of the haters who despise free societies and their irritating democratic ways. People have already adapted to the post-9/11 world with remarkable determination.
Take your average Scotland to London commuter waiting for a dawn flight on a Monday morning. With the aim of getting through security as quickly as possible they have learned to dress in a certain way (easy on the fussy jewellery, avoid belts), pack in a particular manner (laptop in pouch at front of bag, easy to whip in and out), and spot the right queue to join (avoid holidaying families, go for the singletons with the carry-ons). These are no longer just regular business travellers who have a routine down pat, this lot have evolved into commuting ninjas. I know because I was that ninja.
Part of a commuting ninja’s credo is acceptance; the realisation that delays are going to happen sometimes and to look on them as the master’s way of telling you to slow down and splash out on that Lee Child hardback you know is coming out in paperback eventually but to heck with it. Try on a couple of hats at Accessorise while you are at it (always a favourite of the male commuting ninja that one). Don’t sweat the small stuff; if it’s a choice between that and the big stuff, take the security queues and generalised hassle every time.
Everyone’s power of acceptance would be immeasurably boosted if airports were not such stress factories. Security is just the half of it. There has been much gentle frothing on The Herald Letters Pages this week over flat whites after one reader complained about having to pay £3.05 for one at the airport. As Dr Alan Rodger of Glasgow pointed out, there is little choice but to do so because you are part of a captive market and airports do not allow flasks of tea and coffee.
Given the way the security staff react when the odd stray bottle of plus-100ml aftershave gets through, it is probably too much to expect any concession on the flask front just yet, alas. But how about free tea and other non-alcoholic drinks as a sign of goodwill (and a measure of the juicy profits that airports and airlines make)? What is good for the geese in the airline lounges ought to be good for the economy travelling ganders. And why not throw in a lottery for free massages while we are at it, or a children’s library?
In the meantime, there is not much I can do about £3.05 coffee I’m afraid, Mr Rodger. The only way to make that seem less outrageous is to check out the price of pick and mix at the cinema. Bring your chequebook.

Strike a pose

IF I ever give up the newspaper game – and you would be amazed how many chances to do so have presented themselves in recent years – I am going to start a fashion magazine called Vague. Not Vogue, Vague.
It will be for the woman, or man, who sort of gives a fig about dressing well but as long as the clothing has no obvious stains or tears, it will do. When a Vague reader hears the red carpet inquiry “Who are you wearing?” the answer would be “Er, no idea.” Vague, see? 
This week Theresa May followed Nicola Sturgeon in having her photie taken by Vogue. Unlike the FM, the PM was shot by celebrity photographer Annie Leibovitz. Never mind indyref2: that difference in treatment is worth a falling out in its own right. 
Mrs May, having taken pelters for wearing a £995 pair of leather trousers previously, this time chose a more modest ensemble to lounge on a sofa at Chequers (so that’s what the official country residence is for). The cognoscenti quickly spotted she was “shoulder robing” or “shrobing”: arranging her jacket so that it hung loosely over her frame. It’s all the rage at fashion shows, apparently. 
And fashion folk wonder why the rest of us think they are a couple of sleeves short of a poncho. 

Love story

CANNOT wait for the memoirs of Ivana Trump, the first Mrs T, to arrive in September. In particular I am keen to learn how The Donald’s early backing of Keynesian growth theories transmuted via the Chicago boys into a more Smithian view of the economy.
And to think you shallow lot are hoping Raising Trump represents a sly chance to dish the dirt on the billionaire reality TV star turned president that otherwise might never get past the lawyers. Shame on you.
In the meantime, there is much to savour in Emma Thompson’s revelation that Mr Trump once invited her to be his guest in New York. The scene: Emma T in trailer, phone rings. “Hi, it’s Donald Trump here.” Offering Ms Thompson “some accommodation”, he suggested dinner. “I think we would get on very well.” Alas she turned him down, an act she has understandably come to regret. “Think of the stories!”
Why would he choose Ms Thompson? Well, she’s a smart, talented, funny, good-looking woman and her maw’s fae Glesga. But it is interesting to note that at the time of the call, Ms Thompson was in America filming Primary Colors. The part she was playing? Hillary Clinton.
Oh Donald, you big soppy ape – you loved her all the time.