So my commute this week’s a lot fancy-shmancier than my usual trip on the number 9, and I’ve been dropped off at the airport in a Rolls-Royce, and I’ve been in the executive lounge with the hobnobbers and suits, and I’m standing in the queue waiting to board a flight back to Glasgow. And the lassie from BA makes an announcement that this is the gate for the 19:35 flight to Glasgow, and she’s just about to board us starting with executive card holders and one world frequent flyers, but before she does can anyone who had been in the executive lounge please check to see if they have all their belongings with them as one of her colleagues is making their way down to the gate with a black gentlemen’s coat, just in case anyone would like to claim it. And I have my jacket over my arm, so I’m fine, there’s no need to panic.
She’s no sooner finished asking if anyone would like to claim it, when from the back of the crush of folk waiting to push forward down the gangway, a curious wee broad Glaswegian voice pipes up:
“Is it a nice coat?”
You can take the man out of Glasgow, but…