Once again, my colossally poor time management skills and the fact that I am just not a morning person have combined forces and delivered me a pretty hefty kick in the pants.
After pushing the snooze button about twelve times too many, I came perilously close to missing my train and had to forego my morning shower. A mental dash from the Costa cart to my platform has left me unpleasantly perspiring, and covered in coffee.
So here I am, puffy-eyed, bushy-haired, and smelling like skinny latte. Awesome.
The reason for my early morning flail around Manchester Piccadilly? Grandpa Glasgow has taken a tumble, and is stuck in a hospital bed, recovering from a hip replacement. I'm off back to the Fatherland to keep him company for a couple of days.
It should be a pretty chilled couple of days. I'm expecting to listen to lots of stories (old people have the best stories), be sent to the Bookies on numerous occasions, and hopefully to get my hands on some Scotch Pies if I get a free moment.
If you subscribe to any school of religion or superstition, please cross your fingers/say a prayer/light a candle/turn around and touch the ground, and wish Grandpa Glasgow a speedy recovery! This is, after all, the man who taught me all of the uncensored versions of the Celtic chants when I was three, the man who still sings "Mona Lisa" whenever he sees me, the man who sends me one pound every birthday "to buy some sweeties". In short, he's a cracker.