It
was a cold winter's day when McVicar's train
arrived in Glasgow.
He walked out of the freezing station and into
Buchanan Street. It felt warmer in the open air.
McVicar noticed a line of banners above the busy
shopping thoroughfare. They carried the slogan: "Glasgow -
Scotland with Style". He had to laugh.
All around him were fat people with faces like
pillows. They were dressed in whatever garments had been
lying closest to their beds when they'd got
up that morning. Some thought they were wearing designer clothes,
but that was only because they didn't know Puma
from Prada or Adidas from Armani.
A young man accosted McVicar. He was
dressed as if for Wimbledon: white tracksuit and
trainers, liberally spattered with makers' logos
of red and blue. "Hey, big man,
gonnae geez a light?" He showed
McVicar a cigarette.
McVicar said he was sorry but he didn't have
matches or a lighter.
"No worries, big man, have a swally
anyway." The young man offered
McVicar a swig from a half bottle of tonic
wine.
McVicar waved him away with a smile.
He was thinking, "It's good to be
home."
