Back in Glasgow, I meet my hotel room. It is, er, interesting. It is, er, actually and literally in the concourse of Glasgow Central
Station. There is nothing between me and
a hall full of commuters except an ill-fitting sash window and a bit of net
curtain. I can hear all the
announcements and watch the trains coming and going, and see who pops into the
wine bar on their way home from work and who pops into M&S® for a bit of
light jousting with the self-service checkouts.
I can hear that the lady making the announcements is very, very
bored. Catatonically bored. Her voice sounds like an elephant with
adenoids, and it goes on almost without pausing till 11 o’clock at night.
I am also able to verify that the people who drive the
motorised trolleys around stations, with their klaxons sounding and an air of
urgency about them, do in fact do so completely randomly. As I’m sure everyone suspected. They might look as though they are Helping
Customers and Delivering Stuff, but at the end of the working day they abandon
their klaxon-toting dodgem cars wherever they want and leave, without having
helped anyone or delivered anything. I
know this, because I have spent at least an hour monitoring them. Better than checking emails.
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