I confess to not being the person who took this photo. There, in a few words I have destroyed any credibility this blog post might have had but I am telling the sad truth. I pinched it from somewhere on the web. I was trying to play it safe, I could have jumped onto a No 43 bus and rode, in relative isolation into the great granite and sandstone heart of Edinburgh simply by using the free bus pass granted to me by the Scottish Government (all because I've managed to avoid accidental death and missed out on any fatal over indulgence in numerous areas of life for over 60 earth years) and then sauntered up to Grey Friars.
That was not for me though, I chose another path, another paragraph even. So I stayed home and avoided the risk of the heaving herds of mountain goats and confused residents padding around the streets (as I imagine), all at a loss with what to do with their time now farmer's markets, slave markets and insider trading have ceased. Bereft of the hope of future festivals and fascist tattoos the city is but the hollowed out shell of some kind of hollowed out shell for the time being. The magic money tree has been chopped down, or at least pruned back until Christmas (which may be postponed until 2021).
As for the surgical mask on poor, historically maligned Bobby, it's just a social comment, a "thing" these days, a common and amusing addition to statues all across the world as we mourn the loss of something we don't quite understand. So the statues are united at least, apart from in Forfar because it turns out Bon Scott has chosen, as a proper rock-god statue, to remain fashionably anonymous and aloof, plus they've no actual masks left.