a pile of concrete by any other name

When I first came up here it was a handy landmark. It also contained an entire couple of floorsful of computers. It was rumoured that someone had jumped to their death from the top the previous year. I had a couple of lectures a week there with Dr. Davie (who has sadly recently shaved off what remained of his mental hair) then later a few with Prof. Bloor and his magnificent moustache. The vending machine served really foul coffee. The retro chairs on the mezzanine were probably quite valuable. The cupboards in the toilets in the stairwell were a handy source of industrial-sized rolls of pink bogroll. When the sun shone through the stairwell you could see your shadow over the city.

So many memories tied up in and nearby it. A pity it is so foul upon the eyes.

It's a pretty horrible building whichever way you look at it except if you're on the north edge of the crags at sunset during March and September and you catch the sun shining through the stairwell or if you catch it at night, preferably with more tripod than I had this evening and with a little less rain than I had this evening. It used to be set off quite nicely by the grimly ill-maintained gravelly nastiness of Crichton Street Car Park but will shortly form the sun-blocking view south from the almost-completed new buildings on the car park site.

I did have a waffle planned but shall go to sleep to rest the hole in my gum whence my twenty-ninth adult tooth was untimely ripp'd (insufficient clearance for either brushing or dental maintenance) before the soothing effect of music wears off.