There are so many things I don’t know about Scotland. One fact I’ve just discovered is that we are “European capital of adventure”. Another is that there are 108,000 things to do here, which is amazing since I seem to spend most of my time wondering how to amuse myself and my three-year-old when we’ve already been to the playground, made paper aeroplanes and done Play-Doh.

I’m obviously scoring low in the adventurousness stakes. While I’ve been sitting at home, British visitors to Scotland have been out and about doing those 108,000 things. I know this because a VisitScotland survey asked tourists to choose how they would spend their perfect day in our fair land, from a list of 108,000 options.

I’m surprised such thrill-seeking types took time out of their busy schedules to do a survey. It must have taken ages; I just hope they weren’t expected to rank all the options in order of preference. Somehow, though, the myriad possibilities were sifted through and dolphin watching in the Moray Firth emerged as the visitors’ favourite pastime, with a trip in a Loch Lomond sea plane coming in second.

I’ve never done either of these things, which makes me feel very inadequate. What’s worse is the realisation that with 108,000 exciting activities on offer, even if I did one every day, it would take me 295 years to experience all of them.

A perfect day is a subjective thing, however. According to the survey, what Liverpudlians most enjoy is scampering around Rosslyn Chapel squealing: “It’s just like in The Da Vinci Code!”, while Mancunians prefer to crouch on the banks of Loch Ness, watching for ripples.

When I typed “adventurous things to do in Scotland” into Google, I only got 96,500 options, so I think VisitScotland’s selection of activities probably included such extreme pursuits as eating lunch

There’s a reason why firefighters have to be fit and maintain a healthy weight: it’s so they can throw lifeless bodies over their shoulders and carry them to safety through raging infernos; it’s so they can lift mangled cars off people who would otherwise be crushed to death; it’s so they can reach kittens in trees without snapping all the rungs in the ladder.

Sadly for ladder manufacturers in Grampian, most firefighters in that area are models of nimble athleticism. What’s more, they no longer need to carry out their threat to strike in support of sacked workmate Kevin Ogilvie, because he has been reinstated in the brigade despite being previously deemed too fat to continue in his job.

Although he weighed in at more than 20 stone and failed a fitness test, Ogilvie’s colleagues rallied around to support him and now, on condition that he stops dodging the salad and starts doing some push-ups, he’s been given a second chance. He won't be on frontline duty, but he does have his job back.

It would have been a shame to lose a professional with 22 years of service under his belt simply because he also had too many pies under there, but his return to work begs the question: when does unfit become unfit for purpose?

This isn’t simply about weight — many super-fit rugby players tip the scales at more than 18 stone — but firefighters need to be agile. If they’re not, they become a liability, whatever their knowledge of the job.

Thankfully, Ogilvie is not on active service, or careful thought would have to be given to the kind of calls he could respond to: “Sorry, Kev, the fire’s on the top floor. Lots of stairs and there are people trapped — you’d better sit this one out.”

“There’s an empty bungalow burning? Go, Kev! Go!”

In case your life is so empty that you were wondering, Donald Trump’s hair is real. After years of conjecture about his bizarre barnet, the billionaire reject from A Flock of Seagulls has finally shared the secrets of his coiffure with the world.

“I use spray, actually,” he says. “I’ll comb it wet, then spray it so it doesn’t get blown away by the wind.”

Oh, Donald. When we asked you to explain your hair, we didn’t want you to tell us how — we wanted you to tell us why.

When I’m sitting in my flat in Edinburgh of an evening, listening to the world go by, I’m usually treated to a cacophony of screaming, retching, hollering, smashing of glass, sirens and, occasionally, a gentleman who turns up between midnight and 2am to scream, “Senga, you f****** b****, why didya leave me?” at the flat next door, even though nobody called Senga has lived there for at least 10 years.

But on Friday night, I heard opera singing. Some would-be Pavarotti was standing outside, making the most wonderful noise and filling the whole street with glorious music. And then I realised, ah . . . the Festival has started.

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