Her treat for me.
Grub at the CCA followed by a taxi dash across the river to the music.
For a whole glorious evening I was mellow and smiling and happy.
And fucking blown away standing in front of the big amps letting the waves rip right through me, taking breath and vibrating heart.
Proof that I can be rehabilitated…
Though proof too that dancing like a maniac for 5 solid hours will guarantee I will jigger my back.
Had to work hard not to walk like a baboon after I made the mistake of standing still for too long in the taxi rank at Central Station.
Btw – that taxi rank? Ha! If you want to know Glasgow just stand in the rank outside Central Station. All Glaswegian life is there. Three tory boy wankers in front risking being gubbed, trying to goad a response to (really very ill-judged and likely dangerous given their location) Indyref ‘banter’; couple of wido lesbians who were so pissed and just wanted to take selfies with us all in; auld white Scottish jakie guy wi’ an amp on a trolley blaring oot ‘One woman one cry’; a lassie who was bare-legged (in -3 degree chill) and a rare Trumpian orange colour (the Glaswegian tan requires falling asleep on your sunbed) and a pile of roaring drunk laddies with two auld women pretending to be 18.
If only they’d cop on to the fact that life begins at nearly 50…