Tag: Glasgow Central

Home, home on the range..

“And coming home it feels like I, designed these buildings I walked by”

Having not been returned ‘home’ to Glasgow for a while I was quite surprised, as the train pulled into Glasgow Central this evening, to feel an overwhelming sense of comfortable familiarity.

It must be the same as all the Londoners gazing at that lovely new Olympic logo (which was recently sent to me with a subject line of “Lisa Simpson, giving head”)… ohh I’m only kidding. It could be worse, right? Hmmm maybe not.

Update: an animated version now exists. God bless the internets!

I only saw the full colour version today, and have to wonder if, somewhere out there a design team are still shaking their collective head (they only have one between them) and wondering what went wrong.

“But it was a mockup!!”

Either that or there is a design team shaking their collective wads of cash around in the air, wondering whether to pick the silver or white Mercedes.

Ach, what do I care? It’s not like the logo will make any difference, it’s not like the branding will have any impact on the way people thinking about the Olympics, right?

Sorry, I do hate to go on, and I’ve got so much else to do you know. I’m just about through all my emails, and I’ve almost finished that report from the conference, and… ohh you know how it is.

I’ll be round YOUR blogs over the coming days, I promise, and I’ll be revamping that list of links as well. Possibly even brutally. Those of you who have NOT left a comment yet… be afraid.

Or slightly worried.

OK OK, not even bothered at all as I’ll probably just add a few new links in, I wouldn’t really DELETE one, would I?

Would I?!!

(No, it’s no good, I’m just not scary…)

Right, Big Brother is just starting. I’m off.

What??

Past Remarkables

I’m notoriously bad at this kind of thing, so whilst it’s in my head let me update you on a few things that I’ve mentioned in the past few weeks.

1. Selling my old phone on eBay.

Thanks to you lot, I started the ‘dispute’ process and have since sold my phone to a ‘real’ buyer. The auction finished yesterday.

2. Bacon.
Thanks for the recipes and comments. I can happily say that it we’ve had no problems defrosting it, nor with the ‘use by’ date. We’re down to 19 packs, having given my parents some at the weekend.

3. Guardian vs Diamond Geezer.
I do watch my stats but whilst not obsessed about them (honest!) they did offer an opportunity to gauge which would have the largest impact, my printed quote in last weeks Guardian, or a front page link from Diamond Geezer. Some may say this isn’t a very fair comparison, but I say POO! to that. So which was it?

The Guardian quote was on Tuesday. Diamond Geezer linked to me on Thursday. (Green is page loads, Blue is Unique Visitors, Yellow is Returning Visitors).

Diamond Geezer vs The Guardian

And yes, I was surprised by that as well (the stats, not the quote… although that was a surprise as well).

4. Establishments wot have email but don’t check it.
Phoned them yesterday – to reserve a table for the blogmeet this weekend, and was told that “dunno where the email goes”.

Thanks to all of you who commented or emailed, it’s very much appreciated and one of the reasons I enjoy this silly little hobby so much.

And now some ground breaking news. I can now officially add coconut and pineapple to the list of foods I consume, with thanks largely due to Julian Graves Ltd and their bags of “Jungle Mix”. Chunks of dried mango, papaya, pineapple and coconut. Delicious. Find them at a train station near you (well if you are near Glasgow Central…).

Admittedly this may not class as “ground breaking” from where you’re sitting but it’s been a long hard battle, so I’m counting it!

Ohh yes, and it’s Valentine’s Day, but no, I didn’t spend half my pay cheque on a bunch of roses.

Freaky Friday

Having stumbled out of the house early so as to pick up a parcel waiting for me at the post office, I was a tad bleary eyed when I boarded the train. As ever I engrossed myself in the fabulous Metro (the internet; printed) and it took me sometime to notice that I was on the wrong train.

It was certainly going in the right direction but no, it was definitely the wrong train. A small flutter of panic rose in my chest (a distinctly unpleasant sensation, especially when you had to rush out of the house without having breakfast) but I choked it back and slowly glanced around the carriage with a rising dread.

I didn’t recognise anyone.

I checked out of the window to confirm that, yes, we were still heading towards Glasgow. This was most odd.

I lay no claim in being able to recognise all of the usual commuters who get the same train as I do, but you do become accustomed to them. Ms. “Walks very slowly and never smiles”, the “look at us we’re GORGEOUS” twins (both sets), and that old crone who talks too loudly. Then there’s Blackbeard the Pirate (I’m convinced that one day he’ll remove an everyday item from his beard, Captain Caveman style), the tall couple (both over 6′), there are even a few normal looking people (myself distinctly not included) and a couple of devastatingly beautiful people too. I digress.

So here I was, sitting on a train which was travelling in the correct direction and yet still I had this weird sense of disjointedness. Like I’d slipped between the cracks of the normal into a parallel world where things were the same but different. I considered this ridiculous notion for a while and realised there was bugger all I could do about it so I set about finishing the paper.

The train pulled into Glasgow Central and I joined the rugby scrum to get off the train; literally as there were five very large gentlemen wearing kilts and rugby shirts, presumably headed for Twickenham. Either that or they were on their way to some weird Scottish sporting fetish club but I’ll never know for sure as I didn’t have the balls to ask if they were wearing PVC thongs under their kilts (which of course is not the ‘done thing’… er.. wearing anything under a kilt that is, not specifically the wearing of PVC thongs).

As I alighted on the platform – pausing only to put out the flames – I looked for some sign that I was still in my world. Where was she? She sat there every morning, golden blonde hair gently flowing, those piercing blue eyes concentrating on her book, the soft curve of her breasts… ahem… where was I?

She wasn’t there. The one constant in my morning travel WASN’T THERE. The mild fluttering of panic returned and started to grow. I dashed up the stairs to street level, flying past the ticket inspectors and out into the drizzle of a Glasgow morning. Still checking for some indication that I wasn’t going mad, or was still asleep, my furtive glances became neck snapping swivels as I tried to see something, ANYTHING that resembled my normality. By the time I reached the corner shop I was three glances away from madness. Insanity beckoned me, arms spread wide.

I pushed open the door intent on asking the next person I clapped eyes on just what, in the name of Peter Kay, was going on!!

“Alright doll, whit dae ye want?” her dulcet tones rang out over the clanging of the bell above the door.

Reality shoves panic out of the road with a cleated boot to the backside. I order a roll and square sausage. My day is back on track.

Shut up

I’m not a morning person. I thought everyone knew this? Well everyone except Little Miss Loudgob and her mates who get on at Newton and yak at high volume the whole way to Glasgow Central. OK, it’s only 20 minutes or so but… SHUT UP!!

In other news – very busy. New author (re)joining us today. Much to do. TTFN.

Thank you, stroppy business-woman

Frustration is a terrible thing, particularly if coupled with self-importance. Take, for example, the stroppy business-suited blonde I encountered this morning.

Let me set the scene: Monday morning trains are usually late/delayed/packed and arrive out of schedule, so it’s quite normal to arrive at the station and find a train has just rumbled underneath the bridge and is sitting there whilst passengers creep onto it (into it?). This usually prompts an athletic display of stair-stumbling, down the 20 or so steps to the platform, that ends with an Indiana Jones style last-minute dive between the rapidly closing doors. This morning was no different, and so I sat on the train ticketless. We arrive at Glasgow Central and spew forth, all eager little puppies, bounding happily towards the grindstone, or rather jaded thirty-somethings who are considering any last ditch excuses to save them from yet another working week (“Sorry, my right arm was amputated at the weekend… whaddya mean ‘well you can type with your left’!!!”)

As one we surge… ok plod.. to the top of the stairs and let out a small moan. Yes, the ticket collectors await, the queue is formed and we all start silently cursing the people who don’t have cash and want to add 10 seconds to the transaction by paying with plastic. Of course we don’t grumble too much as it all helps to delay that cheery hello from the security guard as we spin through the revolving doors into the office lobby. Then, snapping us out of our mumblings, strides stroppy business-suit woman. Heels clicking furiously as she marches past the queue to one of the awaiting ticket collectors.

“I’m sorry, I’m terribly busy and I must get to work” she says. Or something like that, I did catch the words “very busy” for certain.

The ticket collector points to the queue but no, she’s shaking her head, that won’t do at all. He is insistent, as is she, and this little tête-à-tête goes on long enough to allow the rest of my queue-buddies to turn and nod knowingly at each other: “Some people eh.. ” “there’s always one” “we are ALL busy!”. How expressive we can be without saying a word.

As one we will the ticket collector, psychically passing the collective message: “Do not let her pass!”

He doesn’t. Unfortunately she doesn’t throw her briefcase down and start stamping her feet, which would’ve been much more satisfying, instead she gives the modern equivalent by turning on her heel and marching to the end of the queue, whilst digging out her mobile phone as if nothing has happened.

The satisfaction of knowing that we are still below street level and her phone won’t work gives my morning enough of a lift to make the day passable.

Of course I should be discussing the vagaries of the British Queue, but they’ve been well documented before and we’ve all stood in them so really.. what’s the point?

Although I will say this: a queue is wonderful at providing a sense of shared purpose. A “we’re all in this together” team spirit that many a manager or coach would love to find. Maybe that’s why football players queue to get on the pitch?