me than a sporran that plays music? That's right, a musical sporran. Such a thing actually exists. And I have one. The tan leather sporran springs open to reveal a pair of small, sporran-sized speakers that interphase easily with one's iPod. The sporran is wittily called an iSporran (or aye sporran). I love it. The only problem is that there is a whole new set of social protocol issues to be dealt with. Are you allowed to listen to your iSporran at the dinner table? On the bus? At Mairi's wedding? All these questions need answers.

Meanwhile, I will be found roaming in the gloaming listening to a playlist of Russian opera and King Creosote…

Opera phobia's over when the fat man sings

While my love of music extends far and wide, one area that has always been a cul-de-sac for me is musical theatre. Musicals and opera have always caused me deep problems in that area of suspending disbelief. (My friend Kathryn has the same feeling about all theatre with the exception of Shakespeare: luckily I am slightly more forgiving.)

I just somehow find myself unable to accept the fact that a large man in a false beard and double-breasted coat feels compelled to sing his woe and misery to me while a chorus of peasants sing along with him.

Therefore, it was with some trepidation I tottered off to the English National Opera's Boris Godunov. A friend of mine was conducting and I thought it might be a golden opportunity to learn a little of the obvious charm (albeit not immediately obvious to me) of opera. It's not the most upbeat of stories – Boris has become Tsar only after sanctioning the murder of a possible contender to his title. Hardly laugh a minute stuff. And Mussorgsky is not the most upbeat of composers. The music is powerful, reflective of those times in 19th-century Russia. Yet the singing was amazing, particularly the choral components.

Perhaps I'm getting older, perhaps I'm becoming more patient, perhaps I am allowing meaning to find me rather than vice versa, but for the first time in my life I managed to believe the fat man who was singing might be a Russian Tsar called Boris. (This is far more likely than my perennially erroneous belief that Scotland might win a football game.)

And it is now a matter of some astonishment to me (a man who can't even carry a musical score, let alone a tune) that so many disparate people with so many disparate voices somehow manage to unify and combine to create a forceful sound. For me, opera will now be more than a misspelt American talk show host.

Slack-jawed over which way next

Who could have predicted the tectonic shifts of the very ground upon which our political system is built? Gordon Brown's New Labour has abandoned the Third Way. While many felt such a departure was inevitable once the slack-jawed Fifer took over, the metamorphosis has been remarkable. The 45% tax rate for high earners surely signals an utter departure from all things Blairite. However, this is my question: has big Gordy ventured down the fourth way? Or is he returning to either the first or second way? And what were the first and second ways? Was Old Labour the second way and the Tories the first way? Or was it vice versa? Maybe Brown should skip the fourth way, given the numerical bad fortune of that number among the Chinese, and head straight for the fifth way? Unfortunately, the "Fifth Way" is the name of a failed pop boy band from Cheshire. The sixth way has no ring to it. I suggest that New Labour become The Lucky Seven Way. Given the gamble they are trying to pull off with the latest "give and go" Budget, luck is one thing they will definitely need.

The Kingdom is greener on the other side of the Fence

In the Kingdom of Fife, outside the beautiful town of Anstruther, exists a creative cooperative called The Fence Collective. Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn't heard of them or any of their work. They are a loosely assembled bunch of musicians and artists who have set up a self-sufficient community, playing music in their local pub every Sunday night and have embraced the vegan approach to life. I commend both of these activities, but am highly unlikely to adopt either.

I was back home a few weeks ago and abided by my favourite ritual of popping into Fopp on Byres Road and buying as many CDs as my wee hands could carry to the checkout. I had been fed some info by a friend, familiar with my love of folk/rock/singer/songwriter/lo-fi/

sentiment-based music (a rather specific genre, I think you'll agree). I was primed to select works by James Yorkston, Johnny Pictish and King Creosote, left. Pictish was out of stock but I left excitedly with James Yorkston's album The Year Of The Leopard and King Creosote's K.C. Rules OK.

Bloody hell. What amazing music. James has apparently recorded something like 40 albums, most of demo quality and available by request only. Yorkston sings beautifully layered, simply recorded love songs; it's a slow burn of an album that lacks all pretension and fires bolts of beauty straight at your heart. 'Steady As She Goes' is as fragile, as touching as any song I think I have heard. King Creosote couldn't be more different, but no less fabulous. A fuller sound, witty, real songs about love and life. 'The Vice-like Gist Of It' starts with the honestly direct lyric "I can't help but wind you up and doubtless undeserved…" If only every man was so honest with his girl? Discovering the Fence Collective has been like opening a secret door into a world of gorgeous new sounds, a world vast and ripe for exploration.I fancy a trip to Fife and a weekend of veganism. Nut roast and beautiful songs …