KFC’s are not the same the world over. Glasgow’s version has rice but no bread roll, gravy without the mashed potato, and the corn cob comes on a stick.
Rembrandt isn’t the same either (not that I’m comparing Rembrandt with KFC). Books and TV cannot portray the depth of the real thing, the same as you can’t taste the colonels secret recipe from the advertisements.
To get to see Rembrandt, a fairly stocky woman, in faded jeans and tired eyes, helped me find the right bus. Her very short hair had a purple blush through the grey, maybe in an effort to look her real age? She cleans banks; three each day. She could get a job that has just one work site, but she loves that time travelling between each, when she is outside in the ‘fresh’ air and amongst real people. She is proud of her kids; the boy is a courier, and the girl works in tool retail.
Speaking of couriers, the cycle lanes are full of electric food delivery bikes whizzing by faster than the cars.
The Rembrant is at Kelvingrove, holder of the weird, wonderful and magnificent. City kids can see stuffed calves. How odd to consider they may not see a live one. In another area, a mummy. How would you feel if your remains were removed from your unlit burial site amongst your people, and transported across the globe to be gawked at by thousands of people every day as you lie silently in a brightly lit glass coffin? Surely the days of this kind of abuse are coming to a close.
Kelvingrove is moving forward though:
And another sign:
Also on display, a magnificent piece of Douglas fir, brought from America a few centuries ago in an effort to convince UK forestry that this was the tree of the future. The investors should have read the fine print, or, in this case, counted the rings; this ‘sample’ was from a 600-year-old tree.
Strolling past displays, suddenly the most magnificent sounds overtook me, sinking into my soul. The unexpected joy of hearing James Hunter playing the organ at Kelvingrove…. no words.
Later in the day, another delight, though not of the same level; inside Glasgow Central Station.
And then there’s the Sharmanka Kinetic Theatre. Forty-five minutes of the weird yet wonderful craftsmanship of a Russian gent who has stories to tell through his creations. ‘Promenade’ is a show on so many levels; some of the crowd just thought it bizarre, whilst others hung on after discussing and admiring the structures and story cards. Make up your own mind.
Saturday 6am, a youth is carrying his very drunk girlfriend home through dark rainy streets. But all is not quite as it seems. Get in front of them, see the effort etched in his face, hear her drunken mumbling, and admire the fact that she is still able to text.
At Glasgow Central Station, a thin man, grey slicked hair, clean-shaven, very erect, in pale green tracksuits and grey jacket, looking like a businessman who’d just misplaced his suit. He very politely asked for money for a bed. Someone gave him a coffee. As soon as he got cash, he came to life, striding out on a mission, smiling big-time. Half an hour later he was back. ‘Please madam, can you help? I just need money for a bed tonight.’
It’s not just KFC and Rembrandt which are different in real life.
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