mrry

The law of unintended consequences often comes shopping with me.

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This weekend finds me back in Glasgow to visit my parents, and I’ve spent much of the afternoon clearing out a desk that I’d used since 1996. Filled with memories, old tickets and trinkets, my first football match, my first gig, my first trip to London on my own, my trip to Cambridge for interview. Filled with old school work and school reports (Computing – “I am pleased with my grades, and I like computers.” R.E. – “I am pleased with my progress in the short course, and look forward to its completion.”), and the surprising insight that I apparently had a “particular ability at Volleyball.” Filled with greetings cards from old friends, people I barely remember, and people I’d rather forget.

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The other day, I was getting off a plane from Istanbul back to Stansted, and retrieving my Duty-Free carry-on, when a fellow passenger accosted me:

“I think that’s my bag,” he said.

“I’m fairly sure it’s not.”

“Does it have Turkish Delight in it?”

“Well, yes….”

Growing up in Glasgow, I was exposed to more than my fair share of internecine rivalries: when I was more serious about blogging, I planned a grand series of posts cataloguing every single one of them. Easy, I thought, there’s the other football team, the other side of the river, the suburbs, the other city, and don’t even get me started on the English.

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