Monday 3rd August 2009 – Beware of Asking for a Kiss in a Foreign Language

Having got myself roughly organised for departure, I thought it time to take myself and my six-pack to say farewell to some people who have been especially hospitable.  You can do that here: "Don't be a stranger", they say, "call by when you like."  So I did.

And very welcoming they were too: put my six-pack straight in the fridge.  And we talked of travels done, travels being done, and, most importantly, travels yet to do.

We exchanged stories of the history of any number of Glasgows.  I had some copies of papers I took at the Western Heritage Manuscript Collection, which I had no need to take with me.  They pulled out papers and books and pictures from their family collection, which goes back to the beginning of this Glasgow.

As we were getting into our stride, the cellar door opened, and a young man came out and sat down with us: without any word of explanation.  I was reminded of that wonderful Emo joke about being told by his parents never to open the cellar door, but when he inevitably did, he discovered there was daylight outside, and lots of people.  Since they didn't seem to see anything unusual about it, I thought I'd better not, either.

Then it happened again: "do you have a supply of young persons I your cellar?" I asked.  They explained that that was the way in from the parking space round the back.  Which was not nearly such a good story.

 

The subject turned to the extraordinary amount of roadkill one sees here.  I confessed to having killed a squirrel on the way there.  This seemed to meet with general approval: apparently there are a lot of people who go out of their way to kill squirrels.

I said that it seemed to me that the problem was that the squirrels were not actually crossing the road, but stopped in the middle, presumably indulging in a bit of cannibalism.  But the prevailing view was that squirrels were herbivores.

"In which case", I said, "the ones I hit must be undertaker squirrels, out there measuring up, or collecting dog-tags".

 

As the evening meandered to its conclusion, and people who had work to do felt that must be preceded by an adequate amount of bed, it came time to take my farewells.  One of the soon-to-be-grown-up ladies suggested that, in the circumstances, a nice Glasgow kiss might be appropriate.  I told her that would not be at all a good idea, if she wanted to go to work tomorrow.

For my American readers, I will explain:  Glaswegians (as natives of Glasgow, Scotland are known) have a reputation, among the effete English, for pre-emptive violence.  We accept this entirely unmerited reputation, because, truth to tell, it has a certain utility in difficult situations.

Anyway, the archetypal act of violence which defines this mythical Glaswegian, is known throughout England as the 'Glasgow Kiss'.  It is a manoeuvre which involves stepping forward, and bringing your forehead smartly down on the bridge of the other party's nose.  Correctly executed, it produces temporary blindness, a broken nose, and, usually, copious amounts of blood; without the perpetrator suffering any pain at all.

I suggested a French kiss might be better, but the looks I got suggested that that was viewed in much the same light.  So we settled on the international standard 'mwah, mwah' air kiss.  Not quite

Ae Fond Kiss and then we sever

Ae fareweel and then forever

But it will just have to do.