The flight from Nice to Bristol was packed. As soon as the doors closed I spotted a hummingbird hawk-moth bumping about the lights beside the overhead lockers. Poor thing. I often see them on my little terrace, wings a blur, freakishly long proboscis burrowing deep into the flowers.
A woman with a steely bob a few rows in front jabbed at it with her inflight magazine and when the creature landed at her feet stamped it to dust, saying loudly to the people around her: ‘You’re all safe now!’ The lady beside me, a hospital cleaner from Liverpool, clenched her fist.
I had three hours to wait before the connecting flight to Glasgow and looking around the airport I noticed that everyone was weirdly fit – ripped even. Folk were wearing decent gym gear and hardly anyone was fat. Was there a fitness convention somewhere? Later, on the Glasgow flight, the wellness theme continued: I was the only person with a drink. This was 8 p.m. on a Friday and the atmosphere on board was like a sudden-death inquiry. Very different to a similarly timed Glasgow flight from Heathrow last year where even the announcement of catastrophic engine failure and a slow descent into Ben Lomond would have heralded a defiant cheer from the passengers.
By way of a late birthday treat, my eldest daughter had booked an early dinner for us the next day at Margo, a newish place in Miller Street. Her review of the food, a masterclass in Glaswegian brevity – ‘It’s the absolute baws!’ – was spot on. After a couple of drinks on the way into the city centre, we shared plates of marinated trout and grilled courgette to start, followed by blade of beef, pork belly and charred broccoli. All of it was interestingly put together and delicious. The interior was industrial and chilly but it soon warmed up and the staff were charming. With two glasses of wine each, the bill came to £119. I’m no restaurant critic but if you find yourself in Glasgow and hungry – go.
The lack of a smoking area forced us round the corner to the heated terrace outside Brutti’s in the old tobacco exchange. It was fine but lacked the aproned waiters, watchful gangsters, inebriated journalists, blagging lawyers and glamorous women on the pull of the beautiful art deco oyster bar Rogano. That’s where we used to go. But, locked in a legal dispute, it’s been closed for years.
Apart from the small Palestine contingent everyone was drunk, happy and eating chips
Calling it a night, we nevertheless got diverted into the champagne bar of the station’s Central hotel. The bar, which overlooks the station concourse, is always fun: a pageant of lip filler and false eyelashes.
Down below near the announcement board, a small group gathered around a woman standing on a box and yelling into a megaphone. Because she was wearing a keffiyeh nobody could have doubted the subject of her earsplitting message, but as we walked past, the sound distortion made it impossible to make out what she said.
‘Noisy cunt! Someone should tell her an agreement’s been signed,’ said a man with green hair. ‘Aye! Where are the police when you need them?’ his companion added, leaving in his wake the pungent smell of weed.
Central station was packed. Apart from the small Palestine contingent, everyone was drunk, happy and eating chips. We got on the train with ten minutes to spare. After a few moments of calm in the near-empty carriage, the doors opened and a party of about 20 caroused in. Led by a big, miniskirted woman in biker boots, they began chanting the refrain from ‘Seven Nation Army’ by the White Stripes at top volume. They were still singing when we got off.
Walking home we passed the Langside Battlefield Monument. I felt a pang of recognition. To the left was Battlefield Road where my first boyfriend lived. He was a few years older than me and owned a small record shop and a nice car. Although he was pleasant, it was never going to last. He thought my interests – art, books and politics – were pretentious, and after the novelty of his interests – music, film and smoking hash – wore off, I found him dull. Before I met Michael, when I was 17, I hadn’t encountered drugs other than through music and Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. I was scared but curious.
And that was why, one Saturday night more than 40 years ago, I stood looking out of Michael’s top floor tenement bedroom window watching the crocuses in the park opposite sparkle and glow green and pink and the road swirl like a Persian carpet. Shafts of the same pink and green shot from the carpeted road into the night air. Tiring of this, I looked at my watch. Astonished and annoyed with myself, I realised four hours had passed. I’d spent all that time motionless, watching a special effect. Turned out LSD was a fuss about nothing. I never took it again.
‘Awfully quiet – are you all right, Mum?’ ‘Perfectly.’
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