Every family has its quirks. To exempt mine would be overly charitable at least and hypocritical at most. Marriage brings a lot to the table, but what most people overlook is that it fundamentally mixes two standards of practice and preference.
I can’t tell you the genesis of this particular practice, but one very common argument in our house follows this paradigm:
Person 1: “Should I touch a hot stove?”
Person 2: “Don’t touch a hot stove.”
Person 1: “What happens if I touch a hot stove?”
Person 2: “Don’t touch a hot stove!”
Person 1: “Why not?”
Person 2: “DON’T TOUCH A HOT STOVE!”
Person 1: “I’m gonna do it!”
Person 2: “You know what? Fucking lick it.”
[Disclaimer: On a serious note, please do not actually touch or lick a hot stove. The above dialogue is intended for illustration / humorous purposes only.]
I usually like to boast that I’m Person 2 in the scenarios described above. However, today, I found myself on the receiving end instead. This morning, I mentioned to my wife that I wanted to go into central Glasgow today to take a few pictures of Glasgow’s mural scenes. I admit that I had already checked today’s weather forecast like a good Glaswegian, but the scary headlines like “Temperatures set to plummet as we head rapidly towards winter” and did nothing abate my local wanderlust. Additionally, sharing the hidden Glaswegian artistic underground is truly something worth the trip. You can even get guided tours in Spring and Summer
The cursory glimpse outside bore a venerable hellscape, with wind sheer orienting our trees at an unnatural 45 degree angle and gray skies frowning down upon the street with a smattering of watery tears pounding the roof. No matter, I thought. I’ve been in Glasgow long enough to know it wouldn’t last, and to be fair, as I write this now, those climatic symptoms have indeed cleared. But my wife, ever the optimist, threw another spanner in the works. After all, they do say Glasgow is the city of all four seasons (in a day) – I was just set to get autumn and winter out of the way before afternoon.
She spoke up mentioning that central Glasgow might well be avoided today, as there was an environmental protest taking over the city. Who cares? I remember environmental activists planting themselves on London, Southwark, and Waterloo bridges back when I lived in London. Hippies are harmless, if not just stationary and full of pamphlets and smoke. But my wife wouldn’t yield. She told me that the news had warned this was unusual, with vigor inspired off the back of the closing Cop26 conference. I still didn’t listen. Every trip into the city means running across some discontent population voicing their concerns – George Square always has one or two groups megaphoning their way around. In fact, I remember hearing chanting outside at our wedding two years ago, where the venue was near that popular protesting location.
To make her feel better, I gave her an amended plan. I was to take the bus into the city instead of the train – that way, if it looked too rough, I could just ride back on a round trip. So, I set off, caught the bus and made some chat with the kindly old man who followed me onto the bus at Sainsburys. As we got closer to the bridge I rang the bell, knowing the stop I wanted was just on the other side. Strangely, he pulled in to a stop I’d never seen before, and at this stop two ambulances were already parked aside a police van. It seems emergency workers were hard at work resuscitating someone. The bus driver turned around, angrily wondering why I wasn’t getting off.
The doors swung open and I held my ground. I shot him a look that screamed “Are you kidding?” and gestured that I’ll get the next one on the other side of the bridge. He slammed the doors and we went 100 meters up the road where he announced everyone had to leave.
Once we were all off the bus, I saw a train of buses parked right in front of us. No buses in, none out, and here I was, stuck in Gorbals, where the old Glasgow tennent buildings were. Quickly realizing my mistake, I crossed the street and walked about five minutes away, hoping for another bus stop for the opposite direction.
I had seen another bus pick a few stragglers up at one I came across and read the sign – one of the buses that stopped there was going right by our house. So, I waited. Thirty minutes, I waited, and nothing else stopped. So, I decided to try a different stop further down once again – testing the weather to maintain its ferocity ever more. One miserable walk and thirty minute wait later, the same scenario played out.
Fed-up, I did the unthinkable. I swallowed my pride and ordered an Uber. I got a catch within minutes, and upon the driver realizing which part of town I was in swiftly cancelled. I tried again, and the new guy stayed on – only 1000 meters away.
As he approached, a very elderly lady walked up to the stop. She had a handkerchief on her head, bluish hair, and a slight, aged hunch in her back. She politely waved at me and asked if any buses were coming soon. I told her I wasn’t sure, but that I had been waiting for some time. My Uber arrived, and I looked back at her as I jumped in. My heart sank a bit. Every man for himself, lady. I do hope she got home okay.
An uncomfortable drive back placed me at home and wondering how much baking therapy was needed to purge the experience from my memory. To anyone else who might risk the same trip I did in the future, do yourself a favor. Don’t touch a hot stove.