Goin’ On Holiday?
26 January 2020
As you may have read in the previous instalment, our arrival in Scotland wasn’t a great start. The only thing worse was our departure. And it all came down to the original crash and burn failed car rental.
As a Welcome Home, after we’d collected our bags we headed for the car hire mini terminal. After schlepping our bags through the airport we found the very competitively priced firm I’d chosen was miles away and you had to call for a lift. An hour later the mini van turned into a pot holed junk yard housing a couple of Portacabins and a few cars.
“Hi. The name’s Letton. We’ve a car booked”.
“OK. Got your license?
“Utility bill from the last three months, in credit card holders name - at your normal place of residence?”
“You’re kidding pal”.
And on it went until, exhausted and defeated by bureauocracy that Indonesia would be proud of, we headed out into the rain to find the first of three trains that would take us to within ten miles of our desired destination.
Ten days later we repeated the process but this time with an extra twist. Heavy rain.
“Goin’ oan holiday Hen?” said the wee Glasgow wummin sitting in the bus stop I’d just dragged our wheeliebin sized suitcase past.
It was wheeliebin sized because we were carrying all the extra Christmas pressies we’d bought while having access to that alternative Santa’s grotto, Kip Yacht Chandlers. A pair of oars, a new Fuel-Guard diesel polishing system, fifteen metres of braid, fuel filters and various other items of detritus from the DIY store.
The reason we were schlepping all our crap across the back streets of Glasgow and Paisley was because the wee drop of rain we’d had apparently flooded the railway lines. So, instead of a quick train ride we detoured around central Scotland before being deposited at Paisley Gilmore Street, where, to my complete delight we were directed to the bus replacement service. Down two flights of stairs. No lifts obviously.
By the time I reached street level I wasn’t chuffed and headed up the street towards the bus, passing aforementioned wummin and composing a strongly worded letter to ScotRail in my head.
Meanwhile, trailing twenty yards behind Anne politely replies to the wee wummin, “Yes. We’re off on holiday”.
“That yer man?” she asks, pointing a cigarette stained finger at my retreating back.
“Yes” says Anne.
“Good luck” she says.