STUART DONALDSON

J Fergus Lamont, Arts Critic and Author of “Did I Mention I Ken Rod Stewart? - The Ricky Simpson Story” Prof Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

Inoticed, when thumbing through the latest copy of the Michelin Guide, that one of Scotland's foremost restaurants had attained coveted Michelin star status. You may not have heard of it – it lies well off the beaten track “Bravo!" I cried, causing a nervous lady of a certain age to choke. After the ambulance had gone, I spoke to the owner, asking why the coveted Michelin star was not on display. He asked me what on earth I was blithering on about. It transpires that it was not The Horn which has been awarded a Michelin star; but a restaurant in Horn, on the Germany-Luxembourg border. Laughing, I took another bite of my bap, and a shard of bacon lanced its way into the gap between my teeth, embedding itself in my gum.

I wept.

As a scientist, people often ask me questions like ‘Can you assist at the Spectra festival?’ ‘Are you sure this ground covering is thick enough?’ and ‘Oh for goodness sake, when will this grass grow back?’ As I write these words, I am very excited. Thanks to the little cloning experiment I’ve spent the afternoon on. What inspired me was the exciting news that Harvard boffins are but two years away from cloning a woolly mammoth. Or to be more exact, a hybrid of elephant and mammoth. A “mammophant”. This is not a real word, but it is real news, at which I felt a hybrid of enthusiasm and delirium, or “deliriasm”. This is also not a real word, but is a real emotion that I often feel upon

It transpires that it was not The Horn which has been awarded a Michelin star; but a restaurant in Horn, on the Germany-Luxembourg border

reading scientific announcements.

This being the north-east of Scotland in February, and my heating being on the blink again, I could immediately see the advantages in a covering of mammoth-like woolly hair, and so decided to try my hand at cloning a more hirsute version of myself. Having quickly shredded and stuck my wife’s mohair jumper to a papier-mâché replica of myself, I only await the next lightning strike to bring the homunculus to life. Mrs Schlenk was so excited by what had become of her sweater she left almost immediately. I shall not repeat the hybrid of things that she called me as she left but I suspect “blutcase” is not a real word either.