Meanwhile I'm on a job (as opposed to 'on the job' which would be much more fun) in Paisley near Glasgow. I'm staying in a hotel that's a converted 17th century flour mill built right in the heart of the mill district that gave its name to that strange tadpole-like pattern we call Paisley. The waterwheels that powered the factory are still intact ... as is the powerful White Cart river that flows past my hotel room window towards the Clyde. Well, I say 'flows' ... it's more like a herd of liquid rhinoceros thundering past, blowing on bugles and playing bass drums. The noise is incredible, especially after the water tumbles and splashes at a terrifying rate of knots over the volcanic 'hamils'; a series of weirs that turn the river into a maelstrom of white water. And all right outside my window.
Last night I was stuck between fire and water ... do I open the window and somehow sleep through a noise like Concorde taking off? Or do I shut the window and bake slowly in my bed, forgotten and shrivelling like a potato in a motorway services oven?
I chose the river. And a pillow over my head.