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A slightly spooky moment in the blog bunker yesterday, when we glanced at the last instalment’s wordcount just before posting it up – and saw that it was exactly 666 words long. And it was Day 6 of the festival.

…One suggestion was to add a mention of this ominous phenomenon straight away - thereby also changing the number – but ultimately it was decided not to risk conflicting with whatever dark forces might have been at work (plus Day 6 made it four sixes anyway). So far we seem to have got away with it…

Frontrunner status in 2012’s top diva behaviour stakes currently belongs to some of our visitors, who, backstage after their show, when asked by their artist liaison rep if there was anything they needed, firstly requested a run-down of which liqueurs were available at the bar. They then acceded to the (volunteer) rep’s suggestion of Drambuie, but proved somewhat particular about their ice requirements. One Drambuie was to be chilled with two cubes of ice, another with crushed ice, and the third – wait for it – with no ice, but in an ice-chilled glass. Incredibly, they got pretty much what they asked for – though we can’t be sure quite how finely the ice was crushed – and then two of them turned their noses up anyway.

There was one of those wishful ground-swallowing moments for a certain sound engineer of our acquaintance after hours in the Holiday Inn last night, as he stood with some pals singing the praises of the one and only Dirk Powell, who was stuck into the session following his gig with Cahalen and Eli. Said engineer having worked with Powell on numerous occasions, our friend was also able to enthuse about what a great guy he was, as well as an amazing musician – and then there was a break into the tune and he was able to lean across and say hello, greeting the Louisiana legend, “Hi Darrell, how’s it going?” His pals were trying to save his blushes by making out that “Darrell” is to Celtic Connections as “Jimmy” is to Glasgow – everyone gets called it - but it wasn’t really washing.

Owing to circumstances wholly beyond our control, aspects of our world exclusive yesterday on Bella Hardy’s lost shoe proved to be somewhat misreported. It turns out that the man who found the shoe actually delivered it to the press office on the first day of the festival, shortly before Béla Fleck took the stage – thus prompting a certain amount of Bella/ Béla confusion as to who the brown-paper package (inscribed “better late than never, Cinderella”) was actually for.  Hardy has now collected her errant footwear – fetchingly blue and sparkly, we’re reliably informed – and was last seen wearing the reunited pair. Just in case you were worried or anything. (And only 472 words today.)