HAVE you noticed how much better the city centre looks these days? It is a pleasure to walk along Cornmarket Street, saunter down the High and dodge the buses in Queen Street. There’s a more welcoming and less threatening atmosphere.

The changes haven’t come about by accident. The city centre ambassadors have been doing their stuff. They are a hand-picked team, selected by our enthusiastic city centre manager, Laurie Taylor. She combed the local agencies to find the right blend to do the work. It has been their task to discourage the undesirables (beggars number among these), insist on tidiness, (there are plenty of waste bins), encourage tolerance and order among the buskers and foster pride in the surroundings.

Laurie knows the ambassadors are doing a good job – nevertheless she’s delighted when she hears this from the public. But for how much longer? The contract with the staff agency ends soon. Finding spare cash isn’t easy for a hard-pressed city council.

No one wants to see a return to less-caring days – least of all Laurie. She is doing her best to keep the team together.

Watch this space.

THE salesman in the city centre store made no attempt to persuade me to buy the latest mobile phone. He knew a Luddite when he saw one.

No touch screen, no camera, none of those devices that give today’s phone junkies their kicks. Just a plain honest device to be kept in the glove compartment in case of emergency or for my family to check at all times that I’m still breathing.

But even I was gobsmacked at the price. Complete with SIM card, plug and lead for re-charging and £10 credit, it cost under £18.

What a change from the days when phones looked and weighed like bricks and cost a small fortune.

THAT evening the phone rang – the land line, not the new mobile. It was a call from old chum and retired postman Alec.

“Settle an argument between Alice and me will you?” (Alice is his wife of 43 years.) “I thought I saw you disappear into the crowd in St Giles Fair, hiding behind a large cloud of candy floss. She said it wouldn’t be you because you are much too careful with your image.”

“She’s right,” I replied, assuming false haughtiness while neither admitting nor denying the presence of any pink-and-white stuff. The subject was quickly changed to football politics. Conscience can be destructive, as the young fire-and-brimstone missionary attempting to rescue souls in Cornmarket Street earlier that day, would confirm. Confession is good for the soul – so I confess.