Compliments of the Glasgow Police, I've found somewhere cheaper, and it's time to move. Although I've got things in a large number of plastic bags, there's a handicapped access just two doors away, and I found a proper luggage trolley (you know, with a coat rack along the top). Unfortunately, someone has parked a large van right across the exit ramp, so I have to cart everything half way. Loading stuff into the trunk of my shiny new Impala cheers me up a bit.
When I've just finished, the van driver turns up. I point out that he blocked the handicapped exit. "Ah's fixin' the candy machine", he said. He seemed to think that was sufficient justification.
I went round the wreckers to try to recover some other things from Rozzie, but they were closed. The driver had given me his number, and said to call him if I needed anything, but I didn't need it enough to spoil someone's holiday.
The new motel is much cheaper, and, from my point-of-view, nearly as good. It doesn't have free "breakfast", it has no indoor pool, no reception area, no hairdryer. The decor is much poorer and older. None of which I would put much value on at all. It is however, much nearer the local bars.
Later that night, I test out another bar. As I'm sitting there, a young man comes in, orders an expensive ("imported") beer, then takes out his sound system and plugs his ears in (he has rather a neat little box of earplugs, of various sizes and colours). Now why would he do that? If he wants to be alone with his music (I can't hear it at all), why doesn't he stay home where the beer is much cheaper?
Then he orders a 'shot'. He can't make up his mind between Amarretto and Grand Marnier, so he elects to have one of each and mix them. He sits with his music for a while, having an occasional passing word with some of the younger staff, then he leaves without drinking anything (except a little of the beer). I judge this to be simply image-building conspicuous consumption. I'm sympathetic: if my memory serves me right, it was awful being young.
There was just the barmaid and me by quarter to it-ought-to-have-been-three-but-it-was-actually-ten. "It's ten in the winter", she says, brightly. "Everyone's gone by then": and so they had.
When I get back, Google is winking at me, having sent it's usual selection (it says it's the whole lot, but I can't believe that) of "Glasgow" mentions on the World-Wide-Web. One catches my eye immediately: it starts "Scottish police state". Good heavens! Have the Scot Nats finally stripped-down to their true colours? When I manage to get the story up, it says "Scottish police state that ...".
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment