7th of November, 2010, 16:57
We are in an apartment, now, in Glasgow. The trip over took us over the Firth of Forth bridge, an engineering wonder, and into a small village called Glenfarg, where we had a Sunday roast for brunch. The Glenfarg hotel was on the same road as a decrepit, shell of a building, the one that didn’t make it. Once upon a time, when there was money and no by-passes or service stations, trade in such a place would have been bustling. Like a punch drunk boxer, the Glenfarg was a has been, and a never will be again. Yet, you don’t pick a fight with punch drunk boxer; bottom line, he will knock you the fuck out. The beef had fat in it that wasn’t gristle. The vegetables where fresh and green and orange. The gravy, light. The coffee was good.
We programmed the TomTom to take us north to a castle. It wasn’t a castle. A tree line dominated our peripheral vision on one side, the deep autumn leaves dyed the water’s reflection the colour of tannin. The castle was a house with plastered walls. A number of fenced areas surrounded the apartment as if they were meant for different vegetables. They were ruined, now. A weather-dyed Jamaican flag hung off a tree, to the right, a trellis was adorned with the skeleton of letters that were used in a funeral cortège; ‘Dad’ hung above ‘Stig’. Wind came through the trees, gravel crunched underneath, the light was – has been all week – low, and so, with the deep tannin leaves around us, had a feel of sepia. The feel of a Serge Leone movie, especially since the house and its outbuildings could be connected with beams suitable for a lynching. Suitable for a dead animal’s entrails to be shown off. Nooks and crannies defined the place and so when Steph said it felt like a gun was trained on us, we all knew what she meant. It was silent, a sound people from the city are not used to. Silence hisses. Since we’d broken in, that’s to say climbed over the fence, we had a feeling we weren’t welcome. This bizarre collaboration of fence, brick and plaster offered us no reasons to change our mind. We left, and, once we rounded the track, which had led us the 300 metres up to the house, we made jokes. ‘The house owner had got himself on TomTom as a castle so he could murder tourists’. ‘The owner is coming! With a shot gun. And he’s wearing a goat!’ [Queue Mel Gibson on South Park impression, ‘uraaaagh! uraaagh! raaaaaagh!’]
The rest of the journey took us through rolling autumnal hills and trickling streams. It was dead. Cars passed. We phased in an out of concentration. The adrenaline had, I think, started to pump. Then, we entered a haze of darkness and concrete and the signs told us that was Glasgow. Out the window, a red-haired lady with a mini-skirt and thick tights on, passed us by. She was well built, thunder (and lighting in her) thighs. ‘She’d snap your fucking neck, Peter,’ I said, ‘like a chicken bone… Crack! The last thing you’d see is a ginger pube’.
And so that brings us up to date. Peter went first to the toilet to change into his outfit, all black and big cowboy boots. Steph second, but not fully changing, only sorting her hair and make-up out and getting into her cowboy boots. She’ll slip into the little black dress later. Signe is still in her boots, a tutu looking hippy skirt, her layers and a fur coat. She’ll be the last to change. They are not nervous. It’s not worth it. They’ll get their game heads on at the last minute. Steph is sat next to me. Everyone else is emailing, which is what they do when they have been disconnected for a few hours. To me, this feels like a compulsion. Looks like what smokers do when they get off a long haul flight. And as quickly as this administrative zeal has started, it is rejected and finished and no longer attractive. The itch will rise and be scratched later. This is how I know it’s 2010.
