liberation in glasgow


Glasgow is a wonderful city. It holds a special place in my heart because it is the town to which I moved to get married (we were actually married in Inverness, another city which has wormed deep into my heart) but even without the emotional attachment it is a city with a life, an edge, a history.  I find Edinburgh rather cold, a little too concerned about the length of its skirt, the cut of its hair and frankly too full of Anglo Scots who pop on a kilt for the odd wedding and thus claim descent from Robert the Bruce.

The Boss and I once went to a party not far from Linlithgow.  Everybody else there was coming from Edinburgh.  They were all perfectly charming but several confessed conspiratorily to us that apparently there was a couple coming from Glasgow – did we know them?  We revealed ourselves but assured them that we had left our second heads andI murderous weapons behind.  I rest my case, the best thing to come out of Edinburgh is the M8.

However, this is not a travel blog.  Earlier this week the Boss and I were up in Glasgow to see The Other Boss at Hampden Park.  It was a fabulous evening from the little girl in Roganos on Buchanan showing off her party dress and the mum with twins who wanted to know what they would be like when they grew up (expensive), to the couple who shared a taxi with us (the queue for the train was practically over the Kingston Bridge) and wouldn’t take a penny from us to the Keeper from Aberfeldy we met in the bar back at our hotel and talked salmon with the Boss and of course the concert, all three and three quarters of an hour of it was magic.

The afternoon beforehand and the morning after before we got on our train home we pottered around some of our old haunts.  We walked down streets we had last pounded when we were footlose and fancy free.  We marvelled at some developments and were saddened by some streets that had lost their glory.  We window shopped.  That’s not strictly true, we went inside plenty of shops but apart from the shoes I had no desire to buy.  I could appreciate beauty and form, practicality and design but I didn’t want any of it.  I didn’t need it.

Like a binger who ate just one doughnut too many I couldn’t face another purchase of something I didn’t really need.  Yes the Liberty print dress in the Hospice shop was beautiful and a steal at £15 but I don’t need it.  I have plenty of perfectly lovely dresses already and my one in one out policy would necessitate giving away a perfectly good dress.

I didn’t even look at the second hand books.  In the great clear out I discovered so many books I had bought and forgotten that I don’t need any new books.  Not until I have read the ones I already have and passed them on to new homes.

It was liberating.