From Edinburgh to Glasgow

I went into the city yesterday to meet up with my pal Dave who's come up from London for a few days to enjoy the festival. After enjoying a coffee with him in John Lewis, I took a stroll through Princes Street Gardens, which was heaving with people.



Usually, most benches on the terraced hill are empty and one can pick and choose where one sits. I could not sit on a bench. They were all full.

In the background of the above photograph, dear reader, is something which looks like a church spire. It is, in fact, The Scott Monument. I'm hoping Brian will climb it on his return to Edinburgh in a few days. I've never done this myself, being petrified of heights and tight spaces. Having said that, perhaps I should give it a go. After all, I made it to the top of the Wallace Monument on Sunday.



Edinburgh is wild in August. There's always a lot going on. Some of it is good, some of it bad. The silver lady above falls in the bad category. She's wearing silver clothes, has her face painted silver and keeps perfectly still until someone throws money in her pot. She will then move. How much she moves, however, depends on how much money is thrown in her recepticle. I was quite tempted to push her off of her pedestal to see if she'd continue to lie perfectly still on the ground.



The plaza between the National Gallery and the Royal Scottish Academy is usually empty. Yesterday, it was not and I had to fight to make my way through the crowd watching a bunch of people playing those fucking pan pipes.



After the stress of the crowds I decided to treat myself to a drink the the fabulously decorated café in Debenhams on Princes Street. I was quite thirsty so also ordered an apple juice. Along with my thirst came a slight hunger. A cinnamon whirl was in order. It was delicious.

Stirring with a knife causes trouble and strife.



Near to my table were sat a Mother and child combo. The girl was a complete brat. She had a smoked salmon sandwich and proceeded to pull out all the salmon, eat the bread and leave the crusts. She took a sip of her drink, pulled a face and shoved it in the Mother's face. Following on from this display of brattishness, she picked off all the chocolate drops from the top of her brownie, ate them and then crumbled up the rest of the cake, leaving the crumbs all over the table.

The Mother uttered not a single word throughout.

They then got up and left, leaving the waiter to clear away the vile mess on the table.

I took a deep sigh and tutted as they left.



Later on in the afternoon, Phyllis picked me up from outside The Filmhouse on Lothian Road and we drove to Glasgow to meet Brian in George Square. We only just made our five o'clock appointment by the skin of our teeth, the traffic on the M8 being quite bad at that time of day.

We had a brief stroll around the city, and took a walk along the Clyde, passing some vocal Weegies. Phyllis told Brian that this was a good example of a Glaswegian accent, at which point, one of the girls in the party said (not to us), "Aye, fuck off!" Quite apt, I thought.

We then made our way to The Merchant City, to a restaurant specialising in North Indian cuisine.



Our meal was quite delicious, though perhaps a little too much in quantity. We didn't eat everything.



Our waiter was kind enough to take the above photograph.

Brian will now be well on his way to Tarbert. At least, that's where I think he's heading today. My memory as well as my geography skills are as shit.

In my mind, there's a face
On my lips, there's a name
In my life, there's no place
For the man that I love

'Cuz I'm living my life
Just to sing and be free
From Edinburgh to Glasgow
From Glasgow to Edinburgh