Susan Morrison: Even Sir Roger might raise an eyebrow when presented with Sir Walter

For one thing, just reading one of his novels requires serious weight training. Drop Heart of Midlothian in the street and you could find yourself on the ­receiving end of a demand for planning permission. I’ve seen smaller blocks of student flats. Oh, that’s right, you don’t seem to need planning consent for that... You need patience, and strength, for a Scott novel. Non-Scots revere him, but we leave his books on the shelf, which I assume has been ­specially strengthened.

He hasn’t made it on screen for a long time, so that could be the ­problem. You have to go back to the 1950s on British telly and Ivanhoe ­featuring a young Roger Moore, even then displaying sterling eyebrow-raising work.

Now you take that Robert Louis Stevenson. Never off the screen. All the biggest stars. Jekyll and Hyde with Spencer Tracy, Kidnapped with Michael Caine and Treasure Island with the Muppets. That’s fame, that is.

Given the sheer bulk of a Scott novel, I would have thought the guy was a cert for a sprawling Game of Thrones-style nine-season epic. Perhaps it’s the lack of dragons in Quentin Durward or the absence of ­gratuitous sex in Fair Maid of Perth? What happened to Walt? At the height of his fame he was the ­biggest-selling author in the world. His output made JK Rowling look like a one-hit wonder.

Walter created ‘ScottishLand – the place to visit for all your romantic needs’, a sort of misty glen and ­Jacobite theme park. He’s the ­reason tour buses with foreign plates ­clutter up car parks from Inverness to ­Melrose. He got a kilt on George IV too, although all the evidence ­suggests that was probably not a great idea. Well, not with pink tights.

How could we forget a man who went broke and wrote his way out?

He found hidden treasure in ­Edinburgh Castle when he opened the box like some sort of crazy Deal or No Deal and uncovered The Honours of Scotland. He’s got a monument that looks exactly like a Thunderbird.

For heaven’s sake, Sir Walter Scott wrote a book that smashed the bestseller lists so comprehensively we named a train station after it. The Waverley series was a global sensation. No other novel series has ever been so celebrated. Just as well. I don’t fancy getting off at 50 Shades of Grey.

Actually, forget the books, let’s film the life. Let’s get the Scott back in Scotland. The Yorkshire Husband took me for a day out to Abbotsford, Sir Walter’s place in the country. It’s a good place to get acquainted with the man.

In the middle of the great library, there is a ‘table of curiosities’, or ‘Things Walter Bought Because He Liked Them’. There’s Lord Byron’s wedding ring, and a lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair. There’s also a half-eaten oatcake, discarded on the field of Culloden. At least, that’s what the bloke who sold it to Walter said.

It’s at this point that you suspect that yer man Walter was a generous soul, but also remarkably gullible.

Seriously, Walt, take a look at some of this stuff. How many locks of hair do you think the Bonnie Prince Charlie left behind? He must have been bald by the time he got back to France. Honestly, mate, they saw you coming.

Should summer ever reach us, take a trip to Melrose and get to know a truly great Scot.

Sunbathing? Not likely in a Scottish summer

AH, said the oncologist. We’ve had a look at the tumour the good professor hacked out of you in April, and we’ve discovered it was putting a bit of a shift in. A couple of nodes were already playing Airbnb and hosting some cancer. So, she said, it’s chemotherapy for you.

Behind her I could practically see Mother Nature, fag in mouth and own-brand gin in hand, laughing uproariously. Thought you got away with it last time, did ya? Got you this time, girly.

So, she continued breezily, we’re going to hook you up to a drip once every three weeks and fire this stuff into you, and that should kill any sneaky little escapees. Right-oh, I said, you’re basically pumping Domestos into my veins? Ahhhmmm, she said thoughtfully, Domestos? Not what we generally recommend, but we’ll see what we can do.There are times when the NHS over-listens.

Now, she said, side-effects. Please be aware that your skin will change a bit. Could be a tad delicate. So, no ­sunbathing.

At that very moment, the rain hammered into the window, aided by a howling wind driven by a mini-storm clearly miffed that it hadn’t been given a name.

No worries on the sunbathing score, I said.