I am walking down Clarkston Road, with a group of disparate people who have come from a party. We are seeking somewhere else to carry on our revelling, when someone happens upon the idea of sneaking into the school. We enter the Assembly Hall, which is in complete darkness, and a voice suggests, "Flick the switch on the black mannequin." When that happens, we are transported to a Tech classroom, where everyone is polishing a black, cylindrical, rounded piece of solid metal.
I am in Spar, in Clarkston. I go to the fridge, in order to look for special offers. They are selling guitars for twenty pounds. I pick one up to inspect it. It is a long piece of cheap wood, with two strings and an omelette for a body. I leave Spar disgruntled, and play a golf shot down Sunnyside Road.
I am in a car in Paisley. The car climbs halfway up a long flight of steps that are on the side of a building, and stops when an irate pedestrian shouts abuse at the driver. We continue, and I notice that there is a Post Office at the top. To the left there is a multi-storey car park. It has a separate car entrance.
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