WORD games keep me awake at night. They are a much more exciting way of not being able to get to sleep than worrying about next month's bills, global warming, or what I should have said to that gorgeous woman on the 855 bus instead of making some crass remark about hay rolls reminding me of Shredded Wheat.
Here's one I misslept last night: Superb breakfast tomorrow with honey, yoghurt, toast, tea and doughnuts; superb.
It's a loop, a string, each word starting with the final letter of the previous word. There was a fine example at the Edinburgh Book Festival on Sunday, when a young writer came up with a story loop about a lonely figure beset by hooligans: Bench, homeless, sad... sob, bench. Fill in the gaps yourself.
Andy Stanton, author of the popular Mr Gum books, delivered the tale with apt gestures and telling faces - a few quieter moments during an hour of linguistic tomfoolery and busy pencils. My older granddaughters collected audience contributions; Reg, the sound engineer, had a go at the N-to-N stuff; newly appointed Children's Laureate, Julia Donaldson, enthusiastically answered the call of the Telephone Lines challenge.
It'll need a better title, but the game of 13 Questions had a pleasing debut.
One player has to work out the other's chosen word of three letters. Yes or no answers only. All questions must be based on the alphabet: is the middle letter a vowel? do any letters appear twice? and so on. I decided on 'zoo'.
"All questions have to be about the alphabet, you say. Hmm..." Andy paused. "Do you like the alphabet?"
Later, when he's asked about ten questions:
"That's sixteen," I claim.
"I make it seven. Let's split the difference. Four."
Huge fun, which continues into the book signing, where young readers are greeted with wide grins and his inexhaustible quips.
"How old are you, James? Nine, eh! And what do you do for a living?"
Our ever-efficient event manager, Colm, brings cups of tea. I find it difficult to resist a queue.
"Andy might be a while if you'd like to come back later. Go see a film perhaps, or take in Glasgow. What do call a girl who gets up first thing in the morning?"
"Dawn."
"Yes. But what do you call her twin sister*, who also got out of bed?"
We unwind over sandwiches in the back-stage garden. Julia and her husband are preparing for an event with a BSL interpreter. While Andy's publicist and my daughter chat about their toddlers, he talks to her girls about art and poetry. I could stay here all day, but mustn't miss the train.
"Great gig," Andy concludes. "I want to do it again. Right now."
I'd be up for that. And twice again on each and every tomorrow. Kids love word games. If only those who write literacy policies understood that straightforward truth. Julia, Andy and I could improve reading and writing skills across the land, given half a chance.
Edinburgh is festooned with the gaiety of an earlier age. I head for the station, trundling my suitcase, filling it with things beginning with the letter H: halibut, hockey-stick, hay, hedgehog, honey, Hartlepool, handlebars, hope...
* Rose