Bad Directions

After leaving the home of Mr. Neil Scott and Miss Laura Gonzalez in the tiniest possible hours of this morning, I decided to take a walk back to my flat rather than flagging a cab. It was a still, cool evening and the alcohol in my bloodstream would protect me from muggers.

Once I hit the West End, I realised that most every building I passed was invested with a poignant memory from the two years I’ve lived here. This was the coffee house I worked at over the summer and autumn. This was the bar where I first went out with staff from work. This was the street I marched with Dave and Siggi, late for the Daniel Kitson gig. This was the studio where I was drawn in the buff. This was the massive chimney next to the hospital, which we theorise is connected to the aborted-baby incinerator. Et Cetera.

Laura had been telling me not hours previously about how at home she felt in Glasgow. I’m inclined to agree: there’s just something about the city – particularly the leafy, bohemian west end – that makes it more habitable than most.

It was a nice evening and I felt for the first time in ages, comfortable with the way things are shaping up.

Suddenly, a small red car (a vectra?) pulled over and a slightly neddish guy stuck his head out of the passenger window to ask for directions. “How do you get onto Argyle Street, Pal?” he asked.

“You’re on it, mate,” said your humble narrator.

Suddenly the guy and his mates erupted with laughter. “Sure!” he nodded and they sped off.

It occurred to me suddenly that Argyle Street was in actuality the next street over. But why did that constitute a joke? I’ve had the piss taken out of me for various things in the past but never has my poor sense of direction been the source of comedy, even to myself.

Why was this funny? It wasn’t even as if I was miles off the mark. Argyle Street and this one ran parallel.

Some people are weird.

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