I have to have a bit of a late start to catch up on things, but by the afternoon I'm ready to visit Glasgow and look for a few signs. But I'm out of luck. Not only are there no Glasgow signs, there aren't any signs for anywhere. Altogether a bit like wartime. If it wasn't for Dulcie, I'd be seriously worried.
But it's a lovely warm day. I even have the aircon on for the first time. So I wander about taking a look at the place. And suddenly I strike gold!
[n1009]I just have to go in and ask. Yes, he knows this place is called Glasgow, but he doesn't think it's anything to do with him. Oh, come on, how can that be? What about your ancestors? (He's black, by the way, and this is southern Alabama, so the question is actually a bit implausible, unless ... ) No, he built this place about fifteen years ago. But his daddy and grandaddy lived about a mile up the road.
So it's not gold, after all. I will still have to force myself into the company of grown-up ladies for a few days.
Later that night, I skip out for a bit of Mardi Gras. The bar is filled by a sales team. Their leader is hitting on the manager. Well, to be honest, he's trying to sell her something. The youngest member of the team starts to make contact with the barmaid. They have some music in common. The barmaid turns out to be a student nurse, originally from Connecticut. The leader seems to take exception to not being the centre of attention. He decides it's time to go. The middle team member says gee, you can turn on a dime. But he insists. We're on Atlanta time, I have to call the wife, have to check my emails. I think he's just peeved, but maybe he thinks he's protecting his boys.
And then there was just me and the student nurse. And, it being Butler County, no draft beer. So, despite her being, as Alexander McCall-Smith puts it, "traditionally built", the Mardi turns out to be quite Maigre. Oh well, best not overdo it when there's no hair of the dog available till Easter.
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