I was enjoying a quiet lunch in a local pub, with a friend visiting from south. Quite a treat – the midday meal is usually a sandwich at my desk. But it was a non-liner day, so I was able to leave the shop for half an hour. The food was good and the atmosphere was tranquil - until I became aware of raised voices from a couple of tables away, posh Edinburgh voices. At first I thought it was visitors unhappy about something, but then I glanced across and recognised two familiar faces, Creighton and Elsbeth.

Regular readers may remember this lovely couple, who have a tremendous ability to find the worst in any situation. Over the past couple of years they’ve been disgruntled at my shop’s failure to stock goat’s cheese from Auskerry, rice grown in Paddy Westray, and otter salami from the shores of Stenness loch. I’d thought it was only me who let them down, but here they were berating the young waitress. Wherever they go, they are heat-seeking missiles for disappointment.

‘It’s a straightforward question, young lady,’ Creighton was saying. ‘What is your Soup of the Day?’

‘I told you,’ she replied, ‘We don’t have a Soup of the Day. We just have Cullen skink.’

‘Don’t you know about airmiles?’ said Elsbeth. ‘We’d never eat something flown in from Cullen. Why, that’s way doon sooth, as we Orcadians say.’

‘The soup doesn’t come from Cullen,’ said the girl, ‘just the recipe. And the fish comes from Jolly’s.’

‘From the freezer more likely,’ said Creighton. ‘Which is why we always insist on Soup of the Day. At least you know it’s freshly made. On the day. Hence the name.’

The waitress pursed her lips. ‘The last place I worked,’ she said, ‘Soup of the Day was always made with the day before’s leftovers, whatever they were. It should have been called Soup of the Yesterday.’

‘This is just impudence,’ said Elsbeth. ‘I demand to be served Soup of the Day.’

‘And some crusty farmhouse bread,’ added Creighton.

‘Bannocks?’ said the waitress.

‘How dare you!’ cried Elsbeth. ‘Fetch the manager right now. Or the chef.’

I could see the girl sigh. ‘I’ll get them both,’ she said. ‘They’re the same buddy anyhow.’

My London friend caught my eye. ‘How’s your soup?’ he said.

‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘Smoked and fresh haddock – real depth of flavour. How’s your bannock?’

‘It’s great. Especially when you crumble it into the bowl and it soaks up all the creamy stuff.’

‘Nothing better,’ I said. ‘I should come out for lunch more often.’

My friend nodded to a red-faced woman in a white apron who had banged through the door behind the bar. ‘Especially when there’s a floor show too,’ he said.

The chef went straight to Creighton and Elsbeth and smiled down at them with a look that was wary rather than warm. And who could blame her. ‘I hear you have a question about my soup,’ she said.

‘Not really a question,’ said Creighton, ‘More of a request. We’d like two Soups of the Day, please.’

‘The soup today’s Cullen skink,’ said the reply, ‘I’m sure Julie tellt you. That’s the soup all week. Last week was Scotch broth, next week’s going to be tattie and leek with new Orkney tatties. I would do partan bree, but it’s hard to get crab just now.’

‘We want fresh soup,’ said Elsbeth, ‘Something made today. Not something you make in a vat and microwave on demand.’

‘Microwave? Microwave? The only thing I use a microwave for is to heat up my cup of tea when it’s gone cold. And why has it gone cold? Because I’ve been chopping onions and peeling tatties and simmering fish to make the best Cullen skink you’ve ever tasted.’

‘My good lady,’ said Creighton, ‘We have dined in the finest Michelin-starred restaurants in Edinburgh and Perthshire. It seems highly unlikely that your soup would surpass theirs.’

‘I was in that Tom Kitchin’s place in Leith once,’ said the chef. ‘What was on the menu? Orkney scallops. The exact same as we sell here, but we don’t charge you £30 for three peedie things.’

‘I’ll never forget Tom’s razor clams,’ said Elsbeth.

‘Good old Tom,’ said Creighton.

‘Tousle-haired Tom,’ said Elsbeth. ‘Lovely man. He served us this starter: sweetcorn puree piped into long shells, studded with morsels of spicy chorizo, with quenelles of raw razor clam on top. Divine.’

‘Spoots!’ cried the chef.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Crieghton.

‘You’re talking spoots,’ said the chef.

‘This is outrageous,’ spluttered Creighton. ‘Such rudeness. First from the waitress and now from you.’

‘You ken what I call Soup of the Day?’ said the chef. ‘Cream of garbage.’

‘That’s it!’ said Creighton. ‘Elsbeth, gather your things. I will not stay here to be insulted.’

‘We can get that treatment in many establishments,’ said Elsbeth. ‘Let us take our business elsewhere.’

They pulled on their matching anoraks, and left, jaws clenched. The chef glanced over at me and my pal.

‘Lovely soup,’ I said.

‘Baxters,’ she replied, and winked.

Every mention of soup prompts a memory of Julie Walters as an aged waitress in Victoria Wood’s very funny soup sketch.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 27th August 2026. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations, and occasional small corrections or additions.

Diary of a Shopkeeper, 23rd August