So, I'm sitting, drookit as a very drookit thing, in Glasgow Central Low Level. I am wearing a second-hand Crombie overcoat, a large rucksack, and carrying two other bags. I surmise that I am not looking happy. It's 9.15 on a Friday night, and Glasgow is in party mode. I am waiting for a train to Milngavie.
Three women of a certain age stumble cheerfully dfown the platform, dressed for serious hen-night action. They have balloons, their bellies are unwisely exposed. They are probably not from Milngavie. One of them pauses briefly before my bedraggled figure, a sympathetic smile on her face, and hands me a litre bottle of electric blue WKD vodka substitute brain damage inducer. Then she walks off, her good deed for the night apparently done.
I become aware that other passengers are eyeing me warily. Suddenly, I feel myself becoming a down-and-out. All it takes is a rain shower, a beard and a rucksack, and thrift-shop cool turns into dishevelled homelessness. Briefly, I consider drinking the WKD, something I have never tasted. But in the end, as the Milngavie train pulls in, I leave it for someone whose need for oblivion is greater than mine.