It is the morning of our architectural tour of Glasgow and we are stood brushing our teeth at the row of washbasins.  You are in your usual place, charming the same section of mirror with your reflection.  If your good looks were split into quarters and opened up along the length of this room, all four of you would be handsome.  I catch the eye of my own reflection for a moment and see that all I can offer you in return is humour.  I feel the scene is begging to escape the ordinary so I consider asking you to strike your best Blue Steel pose, but I don't know how good you are at mornings, or if toothbrushing time is considered sacred time where you're from.  Then I think about your McLovin' impression that I have already seen you do so well, but stop short of asking you to do it again.  Instead, I offer something that is less intrusive and better suits the subtleties of morning.  ‘You know when we get back from Glasgow’, I say.  ‘Will we have to start calling it Glasgone?’  The last thing I see as I leave is your reflection foaming at the mouth.


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