There I was, feasting on a slice of real life, or as close as the producers of Corrie could make it. Our Tracy and her fella – you know, him with the squint haircut – were telling everyone that they were opening a pawn shop. There is a recession so poor people will flock to them, they reckoned. How could they?

Mine too. I had poured myself a mug of coffee and grabbed a few biscuits to look in on famously-gritty way of life for those weird people with the funny accents who seem to spend their entire lives in a TV studio on the outskirts of Manchester. Eeh, by heck as like. Ah, northerners. What are they like, eh? I love their funny little ways and their pints of bitter.

Suddenly, my phone chirped and there it was. The newsflash. In a golden city over the horizon the missus of a man from a dour family who is skilled with his hands had been delivered of a small child and it was to be known throughout all the world as – bejaysus, have these people not even thought of a name yet? Aw. The happy husband, whose steady hands keep an iron bird known as a Sea King high in the sky, had been right there by his groaning wife’s side when – let’s just call him Baby Charles Arthur Caratacus for the present because those regal monickers are bound to be stuck in there somewhere – all 8lbs 6oz of him, put in an appearance.

As I peered at the words on the small screen, a warm glow spread through me. My mug was leaning over too far and warm coffee was dribbling into my lap. Aaow, aaow, aaow. That’s awkward. Mrs X will not be happy. My ginger nuts had taken the brunt of the deluge and had turned to mush. She hates it when I cause her extra work as she is the one who has to wipe it up when I make a sodden mess.

As I snapped back to reality, Audrey announced: “Well, I think it’s disgusting.” Audrey Roberts, what’s got into you, I raged. It is just a baby like any other and you should be happy for its safe arrival, surely? You are a mother yourself, for goodness sake. You, of all people, should not have to be told it’s nice to be nice. No wonder gobby Gail and devious David have turned out the way they have.

Audrey, however, was losing her rag not at the royal brat but at the entrepreneurial spirit of Our Tracy and old Squinty Head as Weatherfield’s answer to Cash Converters. Oh, right. Sorry about that, Audrey. Have another G and T, lovey.

What with That Birth and the heatwave that reached those parts that other heatwaves cannot reach, we have had plenty to keep our spirits up. And if the forecast is not wildly off the mark again, then it is going to be a wonderful weekend on the sweltering jewel in the south seas that is the Isle of Barra. Yes, it’s Barralive at the weekend, music at the edge.

That is how it promotes itself being centred on the machair at Tangusdale. If it got any closer to the edge it would actually be in the sea and floating off to America.  Wolfstone do like to be beside the seaside so they will be there. And Skerryvore will sail past the reef south of Tiree they are named after to be there.

And another stellar group of strolling players is expected to make their way over the ocean, come hell or high water, to be there. Yes, the Vatersay Boys are also due to make it to the machair. There’s another island band going to be there but I can’t remember which one right now. Darn, what’s their name again? Nah, it’s gone. Sorry about that.

Mrs X does not like me to ask what she is doing and where but I’m sure she mentioned she was off to Barra to help fiddler and accordianist Calum Iain MacCorquodale with a project. I will have something to say about it if that project involves her sitting on a sandbank holding Calum Iain’s hand as they watch the sun sinking slowly out of sight as they dreamily face the west.

Oh yeah, that other band that will make the trek south to be there will be Face the West. I knew it would come to me eventually.

Something’s going on down there. The Barralive organisers say that far more women than usual have booked tickets. So, with a hot and sweaty one in prospect, all the signs are good for the sight of a load of scantily-clad women gently perspiring at the sight of Calum Iain in his string vest on the fiddle.

I won’t be able to go but if I did I would go right up to Calum Iain and demand to know the unadulterated truth – what is the difference between a fiddle and a violin? Ach, who cares? It’s not as if it’s a guitar, is it?