Waiting for the bus

Now that Mr PB has realised how restful taking the bus to Glasgow can be, there's no stopping him, and this morning found us standing in the bus shelter outside Morrison's at 8am. It was bitterly cold, with a biting east wind blowing straight up the road off the sea. The supermarket lights were on, though I couldn't see many shoppers; a lone schoolgirl seemed to be heading to school inordinately early; the light in the sky was a sort of pale salmon colour rather than the fires of yesterday.

We both slept for the uninterrupted bit of the drive - along the M8, with no stops between Port Glasgow and Glasgow city centre - and woke as we trundled round the little detour near Paisley. After a double espresso immediately on arrival we were set to shop as diversely as for the slides we've had put on a DVD and a rhythm machine to make our choir singing more fun, and walked well over the daily 10,000 steps in doing it.

We also had an execrable lunch in Patisserie Valerie in the Merchant City, when what was billed as avocado on a thick slice of toasted bloomer loaf with poached eggs and water cress turned out to be two slices of duck bread, one thinly smeared in green, the other naked but with two pats of butter dumped on it, and a pile of limp lettuce. The eggs were lovely to look at and to taste, but were cold. I pointed this out; the waiter took my plate away to show someone and that was that. No grovelling manager; no chef's head on a platter.

At least they didn't bill us for any of it...