Tag: <span>Central Station</span>

Just like the Commode Story in Reservoir Dogs, the hand dryer rages and obliterates all other sounds in the room. Unlike that scene I’ve not got a bag of drugs under my arm and there aren’t four rather camp looking, moustachioed American cops with accompanying police dog loitering by the sinks. I think this is mainly because they’d stand out quite a bit given that I’m in the office, which isn’t based in, or even near, America.

That and I don’t go many places where there are camp, moustachioed men dressed up as cops. Honest.

As I slowly drag my hands through the hot air, I marvel at the way my skin ripples and moves as the thin blast of air shrieks across my hands. Soon they are bone dry despite which I still move them back and forth a few times more just to enjoy the sensation.

With my hands dry I step back, the hand dryer whirls to a stop and I turn back to the sinks to wash my hands. I make sure they are completely wet before returning to the hand dryer once more. I slide my hands into the opening and gently move them up and down.

I should, perhaps, rephrase that last sentence.

Once again my skin is pushed to and fro, and once again I take just a little bit too long to dry them. Then suddenly I remember a past conversation and giggle. I turn and check behind me but there is no-one there, I pause and then decided against it.

I fear I may be addicted to drying my hands. Let me explain.

We’ve just had some shiny new Dyson Airblades installed, you see, and they are bloody awesome. Slowly moving your hands through the gap, watching the thin jets of air ripple your skin and then.. suddenly, you realise they are dry. Properly dry, not the way normal hand dryers leave your hands, when you still feel slightly damp. It’s quite an unusual experience to be honest, definitely something new.

Of course, being in an office full of, mostly, men, the installation of a new gadget (and make no mistake, this is very much an ‘engineering gadget’) starts various conversations. So, for the avoidance of doubt, I can confirm that I have not tried to stick any other part of my body into said machine.


So, if you are in Glasgow, near Central Station, and want to experience the hand drying power (HANDS! perverts…) of the Dyson Airblade, then spend 20p and nip into the toilets there.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, a rather camp American cop wants to buy me a coffee…


A lot of blogs are filled to bursting with rants and moans about this company or that product. So today, by way of change, I thought I’d bring you a success story which, as the title suggests, is about The Oggy Oggy Pasty Company, specifically about their branch in Glasgow.


Because the staff are friendly, efficient and put the customer first. Which whilst it’s nothing particularly startling, still demands praise.

Now, take your usual lunchtime food outlet, a Greggs or local sandwich shop for example. You stand in line, and by the time you reach the front of the queue, and can finally see everything that is on offer, you MUST place your order immediately: “WHADDYA WANT?” This is usually said in a tone that suggests that if you don’t place your order in the next three seconds, somewhere a kitten will meet a brief yet painful death. Probably in a blender.

In a panic you point randomly at the counter, and blurt out “EYELLAVETHATONE”, then watch with horror as the smoked salmon, pickle and banana baguette you’ve just ordered is thrust into a one-size-too-small bag. Then, once you’ve paid and as soon as the change touches the palm of your hand, the person who served you is yelling at the next person in the queue: “WHADDYA WANT?”

Yes, I know they are busy but it would take the smallest of efforts to improve their customer service, and save numerous kittens.

So when I walk into Oggy Oggy, and I’m greeted with a smile and a hello — not a “whaddya want?” — it’s like a little ray of sunshine has entered my lunchtime. I’m given time to peruse the goods on offer, and when I’m ready to order I don’t have to spend five minutes trying to get the attention of the staff, they are right there, keeping busy but aware that I will need served.

I’m thanked for my order. When they give me my change they place the notes in my palm first, then the coins (a personal bug-bear I know), they ask me if I would like the pasty double-bagged to keep it warm, and when I leave they smile and say goodbye.

They don’t upsell (would you like the larger pasty?) or try any add-on sales (would you like a drink as well?), they just let you order what you want, safe in the knowledge that good customer service goes a long way. Or at the very least it seems like thats what they think and, as the customer, that’s all I’m bothered about.

The fact that the pasties are delicious, come in many varied flavours (sweet and savoury), and that they have a loyalty card (get your tenth pasty free) only adds to the feelgood factor. Hmmm, that’s not entirely right of course, if the pasties were rubbish then all the good sales techniques in the world wouldn’t help but, as the pasties are like little parcels of baked heaven, you get my point.

So I say BRAVO to The Oggy Oggy Pasty Company and in particular, the owner of it’s Glasgow franchise. If you are ever in Glasgow and find yourself on Gordon Street, keep an eye out for it (come out of the north entrance of Central Station, turn right and head for Borders. It’s on your left once you’ve crossed the road), or maybe there’s one near you?

Now, I wonder if they do a haggis version in their English stores?

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Sure, she was pretty. But should she have touched my knee?

The morning commute never passes without some form of physical contact. Usually it means standing on someone’s foot, or being thrown against someone as the train lurches along. Nothing personal in those actions, no intent, pure accident. These are incidents are all within the commuter rules.

But I feel a boundary has been crossed, I’m just not sure which one.

She sat down opposite me, opened her book and we largely managed to ignore each other for the entire journey. That’s what commuters do, establish the boundaries – this is my seat and I’m reading the paper – and then maintain those boundaries without question. Only when it is time to depart, are you allowed a fleeting moment with which to cross the boundary and only then if it is absolutely required.

Anyway, the train pulls into Central Station. I finish reading the paper and slide it onto the half-table at the window. She slips a bookmark into her book (Monday’s Child) and closes it. She reaches down for her bag, and swings it forward and up and straight into my shin.

So far so good. It’s an accidental incident, well within the accepted rules (accepted, never agreed you’ll note… we are an odd lot, so many unwritten rules that we seem to accept by osmosis). Then it happens.

I glance at her in reaction, she lifts her head, leans forward and whilst apologising she lightly touches my right knee. Sure it’s a bit Terry Wogan but that’s not the point. She’s broken a rule.

Or has she? Maybe she comes from a different place where the commuter rules are (gasp! Ohh the horror) NOT THE SAME AS OURS. Can this be? Is it true?

I think we need a list, a definitive list of commuter rules. I’ll start:

  1. If you do not know me, do not talk to me.
  2. If I get the last seat on the crowded train the only way you are going to get it is if you faint, and I can spot a fake faint from 100 yards.
  3. The previous rule holds true unless you are very old or very pregnant, again, I can spot a faker from 100 yards.
  4. My newspaper may encroach into your personal space but it will never touch you, nor yours mine.


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There is a chirping sound coming from the other end of the office. No, it’s not a mobile phone (despite the fact someone has just taken delivery of a new one, prompting some gadget envy on my part – must check when mine is due up for renewal) it’s two motherless ducklings found wandering around near Central Station.

I’ve now realised that I don’t have my camera attachment for my mobile, so I can’t take pictures of them to show the missus (she likes her little fuzzy ducks) so I’ll be better off if I don’t tell her!

After seven years* of marriage you get to know these things.

*Yes I convoluted this entire post just to answer that question – although it IS true, there are duckings in the office. Poor little mites. Wish they’d shut up…

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The burst water pipe on London Road and the 20ft high geyser gushing from it (and driving past it in a convertible).

The man in tight yellow outfit, including cap, goggles and headphones, swaggering along Argyll Street making everyone smile and laugh (and I think he was doing it on purpose).

The banana skin outside Central Station, lying in perfect ‘comedy’ position.

The man in his thirties and the woman in her sixties furtively looking around them before kissing. Dangerous liason?

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Dear Scotrail
Instead of delaying me by 20 minutes when leaving the station, and to save the cost of having 6 staff checking tickets at the exit of low-level Central Station in Glasgow, why not put an extra conductor on the trains at peak times.

Great way to start a Monday morning. Grrrrr.

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