Scotland has its own national football team, rugby team and even a phenomenally successful elephant polo team. In fact, we field many kinds of representative on the international stage and — with the exception of the elephant polo chaps — they’re all raring to compete and lose at the highest level. Given this history of heroically futile competition, combined with a total lack of embarrassment, it seems perfectly logical for Scotland to enter the Eurovision Song Contest.

Last week an online campaign was launched to give Scotland its own bid for Eurovision glory. The dream is for Scotland, England, Wales and Northern Ireland to rotate the UK entry nomination, so every four years Scotland would have the chance to be mocked by Terry Wogan.

I can see how this idea would work. But is it a good one? Scotland has a wealth of musical talent, so we could run the serious risk of actually winning. And the winner must host the following year’s jamboree. Irish television was almost bankrupted by having to stage this mad bash four times in five years during the 1990s, which might explain their last entry, Dustin the Turkey.

Then again, being musically accomplished means nothing in Eurovision terms. Most countries adhere to the unwritten rule that you never send your best musicians; you send Cliff Richard or your best transvestite.

I suppose it might be fun. We can do camp, we can do cheesy, we can do total humiliation — we’d fit right in. For me, though, the sticking point is the four-year rotation plan. If we’re going to send our least talented performers out there in sequinned kilts to show those Latvians what we’re made of, we should have the guts to do it every year.

Besides, it is another unwritten rule that you have to give douze points to your nearest neighbour, for reasons of diplomacy. So it’s actually in England’s interests for Scotland to field its own entry, because that’s probably the only chance they have of getting top marks from anybody, ever again. Eurovision could be Scotland’s best international relations move yet. Who needs independence and oil? We’ll have control over the douze points and, if that’s not power, I don’t know what is.

My ideal Scottish summer’s day is one in which I can wear short sleeves and sunglasses, and dare to bare my legs from dawn till dusk. In the past 10 years, I have managed this feat five times.

Okay, I’m something of a hothouse flower, but finding myself in a freezing downpour in Glasgow in July — wearing flip-flops, because it was sunny in Edinburgh, and hearing some moronic BBC radio announcer in London telling me it was the hottest day of the year so far — was almost more than I could bear.

In winter, dressing for the Scottish weather is easy. Fleece, fleece, more fleece and oilskins. In summer, it’s much more difficult. Between May and September, I never venture forth without a bikini, an umbrella and, of course, an extra fleece.

Anybody who’s lived here for more than five minutes knows that when it comes to the weather, you never know. You look outside, it’s sunny. You walk out of the front door — and get drenched. Last year, on a very hot day, I saw a little old lady pass out because she was wearing her usual ensemble of calf-length woollen coat. Like most of us, she probably thought the sun won’t last, it’ll be snowing by the time I reach the shops. For the first time in her life, she was wrong.

I recently heard a male executive complaining that the women in his office were lucky because they could turn up in sandals and floaty dresses while he was stuck in a suit — mister, how wrong you are. Us girls might start the day shimmying about in the sunshine, but after the lunchtime blizzard, we spend the rest of it dripping at our desks like extras from Titanic.

Surely, there must be a solution to this constant uncertainty? I was toying with the idea of making a summer dress out of waterproof fleece when it hit me: what keeps things warm when it’s cold and cool when it’s hot? Of course — a Thermos flask. I need to invent the sartorial equivalent of a Thermos flask. I haven’t quite worked out the design yet, but I’ve got a catchy brand name. Once my marketing machine gets going, everyone north of Hadrian’s Wall will want a Flask Jacket.

Scots workers are among the happiest in the UK. According to a survey by the Clydesdale Bank, more than 30% of us think work is simply divine. However, 23% take more than 30 days’ holiday a year (the UK average is 9%) and Scots are the least likely to keep in contact with the office while they’re away from it.

Let me get this straight: the happiest workers spend the least time at work and have minimal communication with their workplace when they’re not there.

I thoroughly approve of this laid-back attitude and I think we should use it to attract firms. I’ve even thought of some slogans. How about “Scotland: where we’d like to make the three-day-week work”? Or “Come to Scotland, where business needn’t mean busy”.

Visitors to next month’s Edinburgh Fringe might enjoy Enclosure 44, a show in which five human performers will live in an Edinburgh Zoo enclosure designed for penguins, be fed by “keepers” and interact with spectators.

Sounds a bit tame to me. Why can’t they go in with the lions? Now that would be entertainment.

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