Wasn’t it fine? Wasn’t it grand? Wasn’t it just the biz that eight homegrown curlers managed to bring home a batch of medals on the last day of the Olympics?

A pal had a bacon butties and fizz party for the men’s final at the ungodly hour of 6.45am.

We knocked off the butties but didn’t have the heart (or the stomach) for the fizz when the men lost out on the gold by the kind of millimetres which matter in that sport. A heart stopping moment in a nail biting final, so close that it went to an extra end.

Having got up pre-dawn, and hustled the confused hound out the door, I didn’t manage to stay up for the women’s duel at 1 am the following morning.

I know, what a wimp. But the eyes refused to stay focussed on anything but a pillow by then.

So it was the radio the following day which brought the glad tidings, and in truth a 10-3 rout was not the stuff of curling legend.

But it was very much the stuff of dreams for the Muirhead rink and their bumpy road to gold. What a nice bunch of lassies they seemed too.

All of us who have ever thrown a daud of Ailsa Craig down a sheet of ice celebrated royally with them. Even if the game they played bore scant relation to our own. That fizz did not go to waste!