My brother and I are Mossad agents, charged with defending a group of Israelis, in our house. We enter the house, and make our way through to the kitchen. Looking at the back garden, we note that it wouldn't be easy to sneak into the next-door neighbour's house, for it is down one flight of stairs, and up another. We then go round the front, ostensibly to attend a barbecue. However the front gate gets in the way, and I am reducing to kicking it, rather than neatly undoing the latch. This tires me, so my brother bids me a good night, and I go to bed.
I wake up the next morning, and find myself in an orchard [which would be where the car park on Lilybank Gardens in the West End is in real life]. I am being quizzed by two former teachers about the drugs habit of an acquaintance of mine. I know nothing about it, so I leave.
At the bottom of the hill, there is a dark, dank train station (like Crosshill) in a cutting. I walk down to it, and, hear the station announcer repeat in a monotone, "Glasgow Central, Cathcart, Neilston". A midget in a gorilla suit runs out on to the track just as a train passes, and the people on the train look worried. The monotone continues.
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