Granny, Put Your Wellies On

We’re being bashed by a hurricane. Well, maybe not a full-blown grown up hurricane, maybe just the leftovers, but still. As though it doesn’t rain enough. Oh well, never mind.

This city is something else. The air smells like a mixture of burning tin, butchers and boiling Irn Bru. It’s not unpleasant. On the contrary, in fact, every time I arrive at Queen Street station that’s the first Glasgow feeling I get; that tingle in my nose.

It feels strangely nice to walk around town at lunchtime in my black suit, heels clicking on the pavement. I like watching the suits drive off to leisurely lunches in their Benzes, busy on their mobiles making deals in America.

America. It still holds some kind of mysticism here. It still has an air about it that holds opportunity in their minds. If you are making money in America, you’ve made it. They don’t refer to it casually, the States, as though they’re the irritating family down the block that’s always got the cops at the door. Here, it’s still the America that created Mickey Mouse and Motion Pictures. It’s still the America where people are made.

They still have this grand picture in their minds. Maybe that’s why we’re fighting a war no one can feasibly win. Maybe that’s why they idolize it and imitate it and get into bed with it when the opportunity arises. It’s just strange, the difference in the way they see.

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