Woken up in the dead centre of Scotland, in the dead centre of breakfast service, by a garishly-coloured wild cat … prowling around the roof, just above the hanging baskets of the Husband Day Care Centre – right outside my double-glazed bedroom window.
As I wipe early-morning bewilderment from my eyes, the two primary questions I’m asking myself – amongst others – are: ‘Where am I?’ and, perhaps more importantly, ‘Who am I?’
Shortly afterwards – joggers in the breakfast room, spoiling my day. They could be anybody, and quite probably are.
I stare at my hot fried breakfast, while the morning runners pile in to the fresh fruit selection.
In defiance, I hobble to my car and drive it 50 yards down the road, to sit behind a farmer in his Land Rover at the Esso petrol station.
This farmer isn’t for moving.
I wait patiently for the driver to shift out of the way, anxious not to cause a scene with someone who has a trailer full of sheep, a pair of restless hounds, a blooming explosion of facial hair, and a shotgun.
Beyond the Land Rover, a smirking man is emerging from behind the building in a ruffled kilt, looking red-faced and slightly shifty, before galloping off towards the town centre. It’s 10am.
Shortly afterwards, I’m eventually allowed to pull forward to the petrol pump to fill up.
Gazing at the vintage advertising sign: ‘Put a tiger in your tank!’
I think back to the wild cat prowling around outside my bedroom window.
After all of the bizarre early-morning goings-on, I pay in the shop, with no words exchanged whatsoever between me and the cashier, other than the one of us mumbling “Thanks” and the other replying to this, in a low whisper, “Thanks”.
Followed by a barely audible “See you soon …”
I double-take at this and throw a confused look, wondering when that will happen.
Did I put a tiger in my tank?
Arriving at a viewpoint down the road, I stare into the middle distance, trying to understand and / or unravel the Lynchian events of the day so far … the wild cat, the joggers, the farmer with the shotgun, the kilted man, the parting greeting … what does it all mean I have no idea I have no idea.
Will I see the gas station attendant again, sometime soon? (and why?)
One hour later, I find a future for me in Pitlochry.
I run around town and it’s a town that’s way too busy, and worse there are now franchised outlets.
For some respite, I hand over some money to a person in a booth in a concrete toilet block, just for the privilege of having them sit there reading Tolstoy, while I do some business on the other side of the wall.
At a gap in the breeze blocks, I can see the sky is turning a warm blue, in a clear sign that the storm of my Scottish road trip is approaching an end point.
Following white lines and the many unknown humans heading south, arriving at my overnight destination to find no-one waiting for me, no central heating and no reliable wi-fi.
I am moving no further forwards.
An Outside World 