This is a man's country

I've seen better breakfasts than the one staring up at me in a Highland hotel in which Susan and I are spending a couple of nights, as a wee break before she jets off to Australia, to visit her son and get attacked by crocodiles and ravished by rugby players, though she denies of course that any of that will happen.

Scanning across the plate I got half a tomato, one burnt vegetarian sausage and a greasy egg laid by a discontented bantam, fed on french fries. That's all and the message couldn't be clearer.

"Look around you, pal. See these antlers and stags' heads? This is a man's country. Come up here with your poncy city ways and order vegetarian breakfast and that's what you get.

"Don't just sit there like a wimp," Susan tells me. "Get up and complain."

"Nah, nah, I've worked in hotel kitchens," I say. "I know what they do with complaints. They got a special kitchen porter to handle them."

"They don't," she tells me. "It's the manager." 

"Outside it's the manager," I say. "Inside it's a sweaty Neanderthal called Shug, who lurks in a dark corner of the kitchen, humming death metal songs and pulling dead flies out his navel. Anybody says their food's too small and greasy, they fry you two more eggs then wipe them dry on Shug's armpits."

"That's disgusting," she says.

"I'm only telling you what I've seen," I say. "I don't make this stuff up."

"Go and complain now," she says, with that look in her eye, and I get up and take the long walk across the carpet, pondering the changing attitudes to vegetarians over the years. 

When I stopped eating meat in the '70s there were only five vegetarians in the world. So there was nothing for us to eat. My first Christmas dinner I sat at a huge table, groaning with dead animals and surrounded by carnivore cousins who thought I was mad, and wondered what to do with the three tepid tomatoes stuffed with brown rice my mum had arranged aesthetically on the plate, to compensate for the total absence of gustatory appeal.

"I'm sorry," she said, genuinely concerned. "I couldn't find any nice recipes for you."

"It's all right, mum," I said, tucking in. "They're lovely."

About that time I made the mistake of going into another Highland hotel and asking for a meat-free meal. "What kind of vegetarian are you?" the manager said.

"The normal kind," I said.

"You don't get many of those," he roared, slapping his thigh and raising loud guffaws from the six sheep-shagging buffoons at the bar. 

Then in the eighties, the right-on comedians appeared, and pointed out that this was all very offensive to gays, vegetarians and black people. They were determined not to offend anybody and had a brilliant idea. They would never say anything funny again.

It caught on fast and soon all comedians were ruthlessly cutting everything that might remotely amuse anyone. But audiences were laughing louder than ever because they wanted to prove how inoffensive they were as well. 

One benefit of all this was that for a brief time people were nice to vegetarians and you could eat out with pleasure. Stout yeoman fare, like vegetarian pie, chips and beans appeared on menus. It was a halcyon age. But it didn't last. 

Nowadays it's almost as bad as it used to be. Basically you can have one of two hot meals, when you go out. There's vegetarian lasagne, made from alternating layers of barely edible plastic and a brown fungus scraped from the soles of postmen's feet. 

Then there's risotto, a tasteless sludge made from rice, eaten by poor people in Italy and used by the better-off to fill their cracks. If you'll pardon the expression.

"What is it?" the manager asks, when I reach the end of the room.

"I'm not happy," I say. 

"Me neither," he says. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Give me a bigger breakfast that's not so greasy," I say.

He turns his head and shouts through to the kitchen. "Hey Shug, get your shirt off."

"Forget it," I tell him and turn and walk away.

A big boy did it and ran away

Stout denial is one of the first survival tactics you learn as a kid growing up in Scotland. "It wisnae me" is an ancient cry that can still be heard in our streets, homes and schools.

It rarely worked when I was a boy, since parents and teachers then had no qualms about punishing the innocent and often used a deterrence method from the football field, known as "get your retaliation in first."

But it can be effective in soft modern times, as my son demonstrates over a late breakfast in Charlie Rocks, when Rachel starts talking about the time he spent, on first moving to the city, as a tenant in her Glasgow flat. 

"Do you remember leaving that half-eaten meal in your bedroom drawer for weeks?" she says. "We got complaints from all the neighbours and a bunch of cats camped outside your window and partied all night long." 

"It wisnae me," he tells her firmly. 

"Of course it was and what's more ... " she says, then shakes her head and takes a diplomatic tack. "Did you know they've found a connection now between creativity and poor memory?"

"I didn't," he says. "But it makes sense. They tested me at art school and said my short-term memory was crap. Can't remember what they said about my long-term memory."

"They also said you were highly intelligent," I say. "So what do they know?"

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Can I borrow your vacuum cleaner? Mine's broke."

"It's not Spring. Why do you need a vacuum cleaner? You having guests?"

"Might be," he says, looking away. 

"Who?" I say.

"None of your business," he says.

"Is it a woman?"

"No it's a Thai lady-boy. Of course it's a woman. You think I'm going to hoover my flat for Michael Gibb and Jamal Khan?"

"I was only asking. Tetchy little bugger, aren't you?"

"No I'm not," he says. "I just don't like being interrogated about hoovers, women and old breakfasts. How's your porridge, by the way? It looks kinda camp to me."

"I was thinking that," I say, lifting a sprig of green leaves from the centre of the summer fruits the Charlie Rocks chef has sprinkled over the surface of the good old Scottish staple. "When I was young, porridge was a much more manly meal."

"You and your ten brothers share a tin bath full every morning, before going out to fight the Vikings?" he says.

"We did. And if it turned out too thick to eat, because my mum never looked at recipes, we'd fasten it to the end of a hazel branch and use it as a club. The vikings never stood a chance. Versatile stuff, porridge."

"That is true," Rachel says, bringing us back to a reality neither of us has much time for. "Oats are a kind of superfood according to the research. They help prevent cancer, regulate your immune system and lower your blood pressure and cholesterol levels."

"That's interesting," he says. "I know I feel a lot better if I eat oats instead of wheat." 

"They're also great if you're trying to lose weight," she says. "They release energy slowly in the body, which makes you feel full for longer. A lot of the benefits come from a soluble fibre called beta-glucan."

"Fascinating," I say. "When my Dad was a lad, Scots mums in the country, he used to tell us, would fill their dresser drawers with porridge and cut big slices off, for the men to stuff in their pockets and take to work in the morning."

"Aha!" Rachel says, turning sharply to my son and making him jump. "That must have been what you were doing with your breakfast in my flat."

He meets her gaze with studied calm. "It wisnae me," he tells her.

Four star fuel

"You have a frugal way of feeding yourself," I tell my son, as I survey the trays of sprouting seeds laid out on his kitchen surfaces.

"Peasant food," he says. "Cheap and tasty."

"Nourishing too, I'm guessing."

"Certainly," he says. "Fast-fry the seed-sprouts, chuck an egg on top, also fried, and eat it with a bannock. Sets you up for the day."

"What's a bannock?" I say.

"One of these," he says, sliding a tray out of the oven, bulging with rough-looking, honey-coloured, domed discs, like biscuits on steroids.

"How do you make them?" I ask, picking one up and biting. It's dry and crumbly in texture, savoury and satisfying to taste.

"Oats, water, salt, bit of baking soda," he says. "Grab a few handfuls and pop them in the oven for 20 minutes. Use them like bread or rolls. Oats make you feel better than wheat."

"In what way?"

"Lighter and less bloated," he says. "They're easier to digest, I think. So what you up to these days?"

"Did something outstandingly stupid yesterday," I tell him. "It looks like the last traces of intelligence are fleeing fast, leaving just a few sparks randomly flickering between wasted neurons in the dying embers of my ageing brain."

"At least you can still talk bollocks," he says.

"One of the skills dementia only enhances," I say.

"Bleak future if it's true though," he says.

"I could become a banker," I say.

"Not if there's still some sparks," he says. "You'd be way too smart. What was it you did?"

"Filled my car with diesel instead of petrol."

"That is dumb," he says. "But diesel pumps are bigger so they can't fit a petrol tank."

"They are," I say. "I noticed it wasn't going in well. So I shoved it as far as it would go, then checked underneath that it wasn't running out. Managed to get a full tank in."

He shakes his head. "You didn't realise you'd the wrong fuel line?"

"That's the worst part," I say. "I could tell there was something wrong, but it just didn't click. I haven't done anything that stupid since I put the washing in the fridge and the beer in the tumble-dryer."

"Warm beer and cool pants?" he says. "That could work. I'm guessing your engine didn't, with a tankful of diesel?"

"Oh it did," I say. "Went for half a mile, right into the busiest part of town. Then it made a horrible noise and packed in, causing an obstruction and making me very unpopular."

"I can see why," he says. 

"Cost me £200 in the end, to get towed to a mechanic, diagnosed - since I still didn't know what I'd done - the tank drained, the system flushed and refilled, and the engine restarted. Plus a day's work lost."

"What a wally," he says.

"What a wally," I say, clearing the crumbs of bannock from my plate and getting up to leave. "I got to go earn some money now to pay for yesterday's fiasco."

"Have some more bannocks," he says, lifting four from the oven, wrapping them in greased paper and handing them to me. "Get one of those inside you every morning for a few days and you'll feel a lot better."

"You think so?" I say.

"I'm certain," he says. "Eating normal bread has the same effect as forcing diesel into a petrol engine."

"You feel stupid?" I say.

"It causes an obstruction and horrible noises," he says. "And makes you unpopular."

Barely controlled chaos

Having successfully completed the portfolio preparation course, and been offered a coveted undergraduate place at Glasgow School of Art, my dyslexic son, whose reward for 12 years of schooling was three Standard Grades, a swimming certificate and a bad attitude to adults, has been asked to deliver a presentation to the new intake of fresh-faced, aspiring artists.

It's a massive leap beyond anything he's ever done. But he seems cool with it. "I know what I'm going to say," he tells me, in the kitchen of his Garnethill flat, as he rustles us up some pasta and quick-fried sprouting seeds.

"In the morning you make a list of things to get done during the day. You mostly ignore it. But it's there to stop you floating off and writing wee poems on banana skins."

"What kind of idiot would do that?" I say, having a fair idea of the answer.

"I was completely lost one day," he says. "Hadn't a clue what to do next. So when I'd written on the bananas I got yellow tape and stuck it all over my face. Then I went home."

He looks out the window at the steep banking, overgrown with grass, that passes for a garden in these parts. "I've had better days," he says.

"Worse too, I'd imagine," I say.

"Oh yeah," he says. "It's ups and downs as an artist. You have to like the rollercoaster."

Grabbing the frying pan, he decants a heap of still-sizzling seeds onto my small pile of penne pasta. "This is a great way to get good food fast," he says. "Bit of olive oil, dash of soy sauce, salt and pepper, fry for a few minutes. Fantastic."

"So what else are you going to tell the new intake?" I ask. "You want my help, by the way? I've been doing presentations forever."

"Nah, I've got it covered," he says. "If you're doing art, I'm going to tell them, you get lost all the time. How you deal with it is the thing.

"Some students in our class kept asking what they should do next. But that's not what the tutors are there for. Their job is to create an atmosphere of barely controlled chaos. And give you paint."

As I masticate his mung beans and pasta, and savour the surprisingly satisfying mélange of curly, crunchy, soft and squishy, I ponder this core message he's planning to convey. I'm not sure "barely controlled chaos" will go down well with the Art School staff.

But my experience is engineering, so I know about people, politics, deadlines and delivering. I know nothing about the art world. He does. Or seems to now. 

"Will they be happy with you saying that?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "They told me I'd got it, when I was doing the course. They said I was one of the key students, a benchmark."

He tosses this off casually. But to someone who got plenty of pain at school and very little pleasure, that has to feel good.

As I listen to him speak with some authority, I realise it also feels good to a dad who attended untold meetings of teachers, psychologists and school management, none of whom had a good word to say about the lad for 12 long years.

"Nice that, intit?" he says, nodding to my emptying plate.

"Lovely," I say. "Must try making it myself. So you were a benchmark?"

"Yeah," he says. "The tutors would quite often say, 'Take a look at what Dougie is doing'. Or rather 'Duggie', because they're English and can't say 'Dougie'."

"Did that annoy you?" I ask.

"Nah," he says. "I answer to anything - Doug, Doog, Duggie, Dougie, Dingly, Dongly. It creates confusion. I like confusion."

"Me too," I say. "A benchmark? Well, well. That sounds great. Is it something to do with you being a long, flat piece of wood?"

He laughs. "That'll be it," he says, picking up my empty plate and dumping it in the sink.

"Just call me 'Duggie the plank.'"

The Good Life

Al has never been what you'd call conventional. He figures things out for himself and this takes him to places, sometimes, that can seem peculiar to travellers on tramlines.

So the potatoes stacked high in his kitchen window don't bother me any, as I wander around the back of his house, hunting for some sign of his whereabouts. We're supposed to be having a meal together, but he is never easy to find in the sprawling old Bearsden bungalow he has occupied for years. 

A woman once shared the house with him, but she is long gone. She was a police officer, not a profession noted for original thinking, and the disparity grew too great in the end. So they drifted amicably apart. Al does everything amicably. Yet I've seen him drive people insane.

Once he has figured something out he will not budge. He has anticipated your arguments and refuted them in his head. "Doing the sums," he calls it. But not being combative or fast on his feet, this can come across as stubborn and pig-headed. 

At his work, as a marine engineer, his creative thinking saved lives and millions of dollars. Now in his retirement it makes him grow big fat vegetables, worry about climate change and exercise his sideways sense of humour on unsuspecting strangers.

"I hardly ever drive these days," he tells me, when I find him behind the broccoli in his garden, and ask why the car in his drive is laced with spider-webs. "I've done the sums. I don't need to. Five minutes walk away is an Asda's, two Indian carry-outs, a fish and chip shop and a brand new Alzheimer centre."

"That's handy," I say, taking the huge heads of broccoli he hands me and accompanying him to his kitchen.

"Very," he says. "First time I saw it, on the way to the supermarket, I went in and had a look at their leaflets. Got talking to them. I asked what they did and how long they'd been there. Said I hadn't noticed them before.

"On the way back from Asda's I called in again, had a look at their leaflets and got talking to them. I asked what they did and how long they'd been there. Said I hadn't noticed them before."

"I had an aunt who got Alzheimer's," I say, stepping over buckets and basins bulging with big red potatoes, and finding a small space to stand. "I phoned the Society and they tried to be helpful. But there's not much anyone can do. You think you'll catch it?"

"Probably," he says. "You know why I was a good engineer?"

"You'd a brain bigger than ten of these potatoes," I say.

"Certainly," he says, taking the heads of broccoli from me and piling them in the sink. "But also I'm aware of something other people keep forgetting."

"Which is?" I say.

"The world is not organised for our benefit. Things go wrong. It's the first principle of engineering. Shit happens."

"Doesn't make you a cheery companion though," I say, trying to catch sight of him beyond the stacked pyramids of potatoes.

"But it means I prepare for every possibility," he says. "I do the sums. When I retired I put my money into National Savings. Everyone said I was stupid and should invest in shares. What happened?"

"They lost their money in the crash and you've still got yours," I say.

"Correct," he says. 

"But what's the use of sackfuls of cash you don't spend and have no one to leave to?" I say.

He goes silent. "I have someone to leave it to," he says, not meeting my eye.

"The policeperson?" I say. "Have you two got back together?"

"Don't be daft," he says. "Getting back with your ex is like breaking into Alcatraz."

Again the silence, stretching. "I'll tell you sometime," he says. "Maybe."

"Fair enough," I say. "Now about these root vegetables. What's the plan? You already have enough to feed a medium-sized medieval village."

"Well, I never turn the heating on in here," he says. "So these potatoes will feed me for five years. I've done the sums. Whatever happens - power failure, premature senility, the end of civilisation - I will survive."

"In here with your potato mountain?"

"In here with my potato mountain."

"All you need is Felicity Kendall," I say. 

"Only if she doesn't eat," he says. "I didn't include her in my sums."

Satyagraha

See all that stuff about a problem shared being a problem halved? Not in my experience, it isn't. More like a problem shared is a good laugh for your mates.

"So you don't have mice now but you do have slugs?" Rachel says, over a pizza in Gambrino's.

"Maybe just one," I say. "Found it on the kitchen floor a coupla times when I came down in the night for a glass of water. I think it lives under the sink. Leopard slug. Quite pretty when you look close."

"If it's only one that's not so bad," she says. "But if you've an infestation you should get rid of them. Your visitors won't think they're pretty."

"I know how to tell if there's more than one," my son says, lifting a floppy wedge of pizza and lowering it into his mouth."

I give him a moment to chew then ask him how. "Write a name on its shell one night," he says. "Like 'Bob'."

"Slugs don't have shells," I say. "You're thinking of snails."

"Use post-it notes then," he says. "Point is if it says 'Alice' the next night, you've more than one slug. Then you can start to worry."

"I'd be more worried about the psycho who lives under your sink and writes "Alice" on slugs," Rachel says. "I take it you're not going to kill them?"

"I am not," I say. "Why would I?"

"Some people think they're disgusting," she says. 

"I think some people are disgusting," I say.

"What are you going to do with them?" my son says.

"Same as I did with the mice and the fruit flies," I say. "Satyagraha."

"Passive resistance?" Rachel says. "Sounds wimpy and pathetic."

"That's not satyagraha," says my son, ever the expert on Eastern philosophy.

"No?" Rachel says.

"No," he says. "Passive resistance is a weapon of the weak, Gandhi said. It could be violent and didn't always stick with truth. Satyagraha is only for the strong. It insists on truth and never uses violence. Big difference."

"What did Gandhi say about slugs in your kitchen?" Rachel asks him. But his mouth is full of chilli-topped pizza, so he gestures at me and they both wait for my words of wisdom.

"Not much, obviously," I say. "But we're talking principles here. If you understand those you can apply satyagraha to anything. It's about truth, firmness and non-violence."

"So you're going to take the slugs outside, like you did with the mice?" my son says. "And as soon as you turn round they'll be back in the house again."

"And I'll put them out again," I say. "And again. In the end I'll win, because I understand the principles of satyagraha. So I'm strong. I'm persistent."

"Remind me how long it took to get the mice to stay outside," he says.

"Five years," I say. "But in the end they got the message."

The two of them nibble their thin pizzas thoughtfully and sip their coffees, and I begin to think I might have convinced them. "There's a fatal flaw in your plan," Rachel finally says, and my stomach sinks. 

"I was afraid there might be," I say.

"It works only if the slugs don't understand satyagraha too," she says. "If they do they'll be as persistent as you are. It'll be a standoff. You'll never get rid of them."

My son is nodding. "She's right," he says. "Which means it's more important than ever to check their name-tags. If one of your slugs is called Mahatma, you're screwed."

Sex and chocolate biscuits

The tables on the pavement, as we drive past, tempt us to stop and try Montgomery's in Radnor street. But the menu offers little hope of solid Scottish sustenance.

"We got bagels, waffles, croissants, muffins, panini, pastries and gateaux," I read aloud from the menu. "With an 'x'. Clearly a cultured cafe. But I see no sign of eggs."

"You want to ask?" my son says. "I like it out here in the sun so I'm prepared to be flexible."

"For a change," I smile, getting up and heading for the counter at the far end of the high-ceilinged interior.

"Ask if they've any gluten-free food too," my sister calls after me.

"No," the well-aproned guy behind the counter replies to both questions, in an accent that tells me croissants were not prominent at breakfast, when he was a boy.

Cheese panini, assorted coffees and chocolate crispy biscuits keep everyone happy and we settle down to chat in the sunshine.

"You spoke to anyone yet about your feedback art ideas?" I ask my son.

"Nah," he says. "Still trying to work them out."

"I guess someone might steal them if you talk about them too soon," Sis says.

"That's not how it works," he tells her. "You share. You throw out ideas and people pick up on them. It's a great atmosphere at Art School."

"Sounds like my attitude to food," I say, reaching over, breaking off a piece of his panini and popping it in my mouth. "Food's communal. So is art, you're telling me."

"So is anything creative," he says. "It's a very human trait. Watch what someone's doing, copy and adapt it. Music's the same. 'I like that wee riff so I'll pick it up.' All this copyright just lines lawyers' pockets."

"Don't musicians need copyright to make money?" I say.

"Maybe the really rich ones," he says. "But I've a lot of pals who are musicians. They all share stuff."

"Do they earn much?" I ask.

"Not sure any musicians do. I guess the Stones get by. But Stu Kidd is a really good musician - plays with several Glasgow outfits. He makes a living teaching music. Dave Towers is a great saxophonist. He sells insurance."

"Some creative people make it pay," I say. "I've been earning a living from writing for 15 years."

"Yeah, but that's journalism. It's hard to make ends meet doing the pure thing. You sold your novel yet?"

"No," I say.

"There you are then," he says

"What sells books, I think, is coming to the end of a chapter and there's a puzzle," Sis says. "Dan Brown is good at that. Even if you don't like the story it keeps you reading."

"I was thinking of churning out a sex novel bestseller," I say. "To fund the writing I want to do."

My son chokes on his coffee. "What do you know about sex?" he says.

"I knew enough to make you."

"Anyone can do that. Look around - kids everywhere. Just because you can procreate doesn't mean you can write a bestselling sex novel."

"Listen laddie, I was young in the 1960s. We invented sex."

"Yeah but in those days it was five minutes, boys on top, roll over for a cigarette. People won't read that now. You got to stretch them. Tell them stuff they'd never think of themselves."

"We discovered the clitoris."

"That's like saying you discovered Auchinleck. It's on the main road. You can't miss it. What about the G-spot?"

"I've heard of it," I say.

"Not good enough," he says. "You got to be able to find it in the dark with handcuffs on. You have to play tunes on it with your fingertips. Can you perform an F sharp chord progression on a woman's body?"

"You're making that up," I say.

"I'm not," he says. "Have you taken part in a mozzarella sandwich? Can you do the chocolate chip muffin?"

"You're reading that off the bloody menu," I say.

"I am," he says. "But I'll guarantee people are doing them to each other right now, somewhere nearby. Face it chief, you can't write a modern sex novel. Not unless you get someone else to do the research and write up what they tell you."

I raise my cappuccino to my lips and study him in silence.

"Not a chance," he says.

I start to turn towards my sister. "Don't even think about it," she says.

"Oh bugger," I say. "You're right, of course. It's going to have to be the crime novel then. Does either of you know any bank robbers?"

It's all in good working order

"See here's the problem," I tell Susan, as we're sat in front of the television watching Run Fatboy Run, with our dinners on trays on our laps. "I've been eating too slow and watching too well. My macaroni cheese has gone cold."

"Stick it in the microwave," she says, without looking at me.

"Normally that would work," I tell her. "Though chips don't come out as tasty as they went in. But I've also got salad on my plate, entangled with the pasta and chips. When you microwave lettuce it goes limp, warm and slimy, like a politician's handshake."

She lifts the remote and presses the pause button, then turns slowly to stare at me. "Do you want to watch this film?" she asks. "Or talk drivel about salad?"

"I was planning to do both," I say. "But I can see now that's not going to work. Press play."

She does and we see the novice runner Dennis getting his giant blister pricked by his mate Gordon. It's such a well-acted scene that it makes me laugh every time, as the tension builds to the pus-in-the face climax. I still have my pasta problem but a solution has come to me.

Five minutes later I'm back from the kitchen. "Did your need for hot pasta overcome your dislike of limp lettuce?" Susan says.

"No, it's too horrible," I say. "So I picked out all the bits of salad with my fork and ate them, then I microwaved the chips and macaroni, then I added more salad from the bowl. Quite clever actually."

"Yeah, you're a mastermind," she says. "Took you ten minutes to outwit lettuce."

She presses the pause button again and I stare at the frozen figures, unwilling to turn and look at her, as I can sense what's coming next. "So are you going to wear a kilt at Mairi's wedding then?" she says.

"How many times are you going to ask me?" I say.

"As many as it takes you to get the answer right," she says.

"I'm not going to wear a kilt," I say. "I've never worn a kilt and I'm not starting now. It's fake Scots culture that projects a quaint, kitsch caricature of us to the world. It also has martial overtones which I hate."

"Men in kilts make women go weak at the knees," she says.

"What would I do with a wobbly-kneed woman," I say.

"You used to know," she says.

"Listen," I say. "The last thing I need is to enhance my allure. I have to work hard to tone it down or women I've never met sexually harass me in the street."

She shakes her head. "It's a strange planet you live on, Douglas. The entire wedding party is wearing kilts. You'll look out of place in a suit."

"I'm not part of the wedding party," I remind her. "The groom's mother has vetoed it. So I'm to be banished to the boondocks, perched on a bar-stool at the back of the hall with a small telescope to see what's happening."

"You're at the table right next to us," she says. "Brian's wearing a kilt."

"He is not," I say.

"He is. Told us yesterday. So that's the full set. Except you."

It's my turn to shake my head. "Brian? Well, that's disappointing. I had him down for a man with a backbone like mine, impervious to pressure from strong women."

"He is," she says. "He just knows when to relent to make people happy. Doesn't make him less of a man. More, if you ask me."

She pauses then plays her trump card. "Marie says you'll look lovely in a kilt and would you please wear one for her."

Marie is the bride. Girly, gorgeous, funny and feminine. I've had a soft spot for her since we met.

"Oh for heaven's sake, all right," I say. "I'll wear a bloody kilt. But don't expect me to enjoy myself. It'll feel like I've betrayed my principles. I'll be hot and uncomfortable. I won't know how to sit down, dance with decency or take a leak. And I'll get groped by all the gays."

"You'll love it," she says. "There's just one more thing."

I turn to look at her and my mind goes numb with sudden dread.

"Marie has found these gorgeous pink sporrans in a wedding catalogue ... "

Sounds of silence

"I reckon viruses are like wasps," my son tells me, as we walk along a west end pavement, after a meeting in the Centre for Virus Research, looking for a cafe that sells something resembling breakfast, at two in the afternoon.

"Really," I say, pulling up my collar against the chill drizzle that has started falling and has already numbed my head. "Would that be the buzzing or the orange stripes?"

"Don't be stupid," he says. "Viruses are smaller than the wavelength of light. So they don't have any colour. And they sure don't make a noise."

"For an artist you have a fair grasp of physics." I say. "But what the hell are you talking about?"

"I figure if you don't bother viruses they won't bother you," he says. "Same as wasps. It's the Tao."

I push open the door to another glass and steel space and study the menu. "Hummus and pitta bread again," I tell him. "I'm cold, wet and hungry. What do you think? Let's eat."

"I think it's sheep-herder food from another country, sold to sheep in this one at silly prices," he says. "All I want is a fried egg roll. Why's that so hard around here?"

So I turn reluctantly away from the warm interior and stride along the street again, pondering the penetration of Scottish rain. It really is the wettest water in the world.

Next place looks no more promising, but I'm desperate, so I push open the door, weave a path past metal tables, and am astonished to read, high on the blackboard behind the counter, that we can buy, not just a fried-egg roll here, but one with a tattie scone in it, turning a light bite into a meal fit for hard labour in muddy fields - especially if you order two with black coffee, which my son now does.

I have nothing more strenuous than writing planned, so order one roll and a cappuccino, and the two of us take a seat by the window to watch the less fortunate getting wet. 

"Have you noticed how, soon as it rains, half the people on the streets pull out umbrellas and stroll along looking smug?" he says. "Where do they keep them - down their trousers? What kind of person carries an umbrella in their pants at all times?"

"The kind of person who is always prepared, unlike you or I," I tell him. "Cautious, sensible people who plan ahead, wait for the green man and join a pension scheme when they're still at school."

"Well, bugger them," he says. "I like rain."

"What does Tao mean?" I say. "You mention it often these days."

He shrugs and says nothing.

"Is that it?" I say. "Ten years of Tai Chi three times a week and that's the best you can do for explanation?"

He smiles and shrugs again. "You can't put it into words," he says. "Soon as you try, you're wrong. You're talking about a model, not the thing itself. 'Those who know, do not speak,' Lao Tzu said. 'Those who speak, do not know.' Then he left behind a whole book."

He raises a fried egg roll to his mouth and I give him a moment to appreciate the Tao of the tattie scone. "See that's a contradiction," I say.

"Nothing wrong with contradiction," he tells me. "Comes from thinking with words. All they do is create distinctions in your mind that don't exist in the world."

"Like between viruses and wasps?" I say.

"Right," he says. "Distinctions and contradictions aren't real. That's what koans - like the sound of one hand clapping - are about. The Tao is action, not words."

"Give me an example," I say.

"Well the Chinese are expanding into everything and a lot of folk don't like that. So they go, 'Hey China, you shouldn't be buying our banks.' And the Chinese just shrug their shoulders.

"Then they go, 'Hey China, we don't like you taking over our oil companies.' And the Chinese go, 'So?'

"Then they go, 'Hey China, leave our utilities alone.' And the Chinese go 'What you gonnae dae about it, pal?"

He leans back in his chair, takes a long sip of coffee and stares out the window at the shining streets.

"I had no idea the Chinese came from Govan," I say.

"Not many people do," he tells me.

Wisdom tooth

My sister sometimes overdoes the empathy. "He comes from Greece and you know the problems they're having," she tells me over a fried egg breakfast in her home. "He probably sends money back every month to his mum and dad and their dog."

"That's hardly your problem Helen,"  I tell her, trying to sound like the sensible elder brother I should have been. "He's your dentist not your responsibility."

"I feel sorry for him," she says. "I don't think he's a great dentist. He's clumsy. He drops things. He bumps into people. And his equipment. And the walls."

I stare at her and shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says. "He's a nice guy though. Got this lovely accent."

"Which he uses to say 'Oops'?" I suggest. "And 'Pardon me for stabbing you in the throat, madam.'"

"Also I don't think he's done much root canal work and that's what I'm booked in for tomorrow."

I shake my head and chew my egg roll, one of those you pop in the oven for a few minutes and it comes out warm and doughy. "This is lovely," I tell her. "You buy fried eggs in a café they're half raw and run down your chin. These are firm but not crisp. Perfect."

"You think I'm nuts." she says. "Don't you?"

"Because you're having a dyspraxic dentist do root canal work on the only teeth you'll ever have?" I say. "Nah.

"What is root canal, anyway?" I ask her. "People talk about it, but it means nothing to me."

"It's the part of a tooth's root that carries nerves and blood vessels," she says. "The dentist drills down, scrapes all that out with little files because it's infected and replaces it with artificial stuff. The tooth's dead then but gives you no pain. He was very good at explaining it to me."

"In his lovely Greek accent?"

"Yes."

"While bumping into things?"

"He smacked himself in the eye with the back of his hand while doing the scraping action."

I shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says. "But he's NHS and it's so hard to get one these days. The job would cost £1000 if I went private."

"But you would have the use of your face afterwards," I point out. "Your jugular would be unsevered and you wouldn't have a scalpel sticking out your forehead."

"Once he's working on your teeth he seems less clumsy," she says.

"How can you tell? Your head's numb. He's probably dropping drills, tweezers and cups of tea into your mouth and you can't feel it. I bet they're still there. Let me look."

She tops my mug up with fresh coffee and ignores me. "It's good service here," I tell her. "Reasonable prices too. I'll recommend you to my friends."

"Don't you dare," she says. "I've met your friends."

"You like Al," I say.

"I want to mother him," she says. "There's a sadness in his eyes. You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"Nah, I want to mother him too."

"I mean about my dentist."

I sip the coffee. Piping hot, just how I like it. "If we had a who's the most sensible person in this room contest, Helen, you'd lose. That's how far you've come from any semblance of sanity."

"I know. I know," she says. "What do you think I should do?"

"Dump him. Get a better dentist."

"What about his mum and dad?"

"He's an orphan."

"What about his dog?"

"It's being looked after by his best friend on an orange farm in Attica."

"Will it upset him if he loses me?

"He's your dentist Helen, not your lover."

"I'll do it. You've got me all fired up. I'll do it," she says, banging her egg roll on the table and making the cat jump. 

"Right after I keep this appointment tomorrow," she says.

I shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says.

Balanced diet

"Have you noticed there's more mist on the moors these days?" my son asks, as we shop in Tesco's deserted aisles, late at night.

"I have," I say. "I blame climate change."

"I blame zombies," he says, grabbing two packs of broccoli and tossing them in the trolley.  "Good stuff that," he says. "Bright, fresh and green. You can feel it zapping you with vitamins as you eat it."

"Zombies?" I say.

"What?"

"You blame zombies for the mists on the moors?"

"Sure," he says. "They hide inside it till you wander along, then jump out and eat your brains."

"Bastards," I say.

"Yeah," he says.

We leave the vegetables behind and head towards the centre of the store, sidestepping a surly member of staff. "Do you always shop here?" I ask. "I used to but the shelf-stackers are rude. They shove you aside and never apologise."

"I've noticed that," he says. "But it's big and it's handy for me. Now what else do I need? I've got broccoli, tomatoes, cheese and chick peas. That's all I live on these days. You're a vegetarian too. What do you eat?"

"Pasta, beans, salad."

"Doesn't sound like a balanced diet," he says. "You sure being veggie is good for you?"

"Been one for 40 years," I say, and he looks me up and down but makes no comment. The lighting in the store has started to flicker.

"Ten years for me," he says. "But I'm not convinced it's healthy."

"You look well on it," I say. "Even if I don't."

"That's the training. But it must be easier for a body to make muscles and organs if that's what you're putting into it. Stands to reason."

"Not necessarily. It's biochemistry. It's complicated."

"But how can you build biceps out of macaroni and lettuce leaves?" he says. "I wouldn't know where to start if I was a human metabolism."

"Just as well you're not then," I say.

The faulty lighting has settled now into a slow oscillation, bright to gloomy and back again, accompanied by an electrical buzz that peaks in the darkness. The rows of red flesh in the meat aisle look painless and sterile in their tight cellophane wrappers. It's no place for veggies so we push on, headed for the drinks aisle.

"On that logic you should eat human flesh all the time," I say. "And zombies would be the healthiest people around."

"If they weren't dead," he says, stopping abruptly and looking along the length of the aisle. "See if I was a zombie, I wouldn't be out on those cold, hard moors at night. I'd be hanging around places like this, picking off sad people like us."

A vaguely human shape comes shambling towards us. "Could you tell the difference between a zombie and a shelf-stacker in this light?" I ask my son anxiously.

"One moves slow, smells bad and treats you rough," he says. "The other's a zombie."

"Twats," the stacker says and walks on.