My last day in Glasgow dawned damp and iron grey, but my fellow Trading Tales writer Diana McCaulay and I were undaunted by the promise of rain. We set off for the riverside...
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Not ready for the road
I am in hiding till Ash Wednesday.
I have my stereo, my CD’s (no pirated stuff in my house!), my newspapers (this one is my fave, of course) and then there is Facebook. All the evil misdeeds you commit this Carnival will go viral in seconds and I shall be as up to date on the mischief, just as if I were on the road with you.
Apart from just being a sour old puss who is in one of her sourest sloughs these days (too many birthdays, not enough cake) I am practising avoidance therapy. The theory works like this: if I avoid creepozoids, I might let them live a little longer.
Here’s the thing: stop asking me my opinion on Mr Killa’s Rolly Polly contribution. I am not an expert on rolly pollyness or any kind of polly, for that matter. I do not know if the song is sexist sewage or an anthem for women. Is the beat catchy but the video a public shaming? Go do a PhD on the topic if you like. Leave me out of it.
I do not want to know which bumper is more real than the other, either, Mr Kerwin Dubois, although you got my vote for the Groovy title. Is Red Light District a backward step for Bunji, as if the man is supposed to be some professor of cultural studies instead of a soca artiste taking a light sexual romp? Ask him. Not me.