One grabs a pair of pipes from the rear of an arts centre and proceeds to blow sounds, and these sounds seem so perfectly stated that the pipes themselves are henceforth transformed, they are become transcendental objects, instruments of music! instruments of something greater than anything previously experienced, anything acted upon with you. With you.
What was it about that sound? as a matter of interest just. Was it something in the hollowness of tone? Was it something
What was it?
Such questions but, they cannot be formed in an authentic sense when the actual objects are divorced from the context. In order to realize their nature they have to be blown, the sounds are to be blown, the pipes must be blown. The pipes being the sounds of course. Hold onto that. And so what if you do have to resign. P for Patrick Doyle Esquire, a single man, a bachelor; a chap with little or no responsibilities. A teacher who has become totally sickened, absolutely scunnered. A guy who is all too aware of the malevolent nature of his influence. He is the tool of a dictatorship government. A fellow who receives a greater than average wage for the business of fencing in the children of the suppressed poor.
That’s the way of it, really.
And then you look at fucking auld Goya. Look at Goya for fuck sake, a man and a half. Ten men and a half! Still going strong there at seventy-five years of age, and that twist of the eyebrows. Ah for christ sake good night messrs one and all for this is indeed the way of it, the very essence of it.
The Clyde Expressway.
The sliproad up from Anderson Cross.
He was on the road to England.
Okay, settle down now; stop chortling, although:
Patrick, having opted for the M8, and now being on the road to England but it could be the road to Edinburgh or even Stirling — or even fucking Easterhouse and Barlanark — being not yet beyond the boundary of the city itself; and also
he was going to England.
No he wasnt he was going home, he was returning home. Maybe by way of a local pub, just for the one pint before heading upstairs to bed. He was drained, in a state of exhaustion. Such a long long day. When had this day started. 7 o’clock in the morning? Who could believe in such a devilishly hard thing to believe. It was positively disbelievable. 
always found such
How to get home. He should immediately snatch at the Fruit-market turn-off, head back down the Castle Street route, along Cathedral Street. That is the escape for someone in his predicament. Then why has he not fucking done it? Because the mental bastard is still on the road to England, and not stopping. How come he’s doing this? Whom is he trying to impress? Alison canni see him. She has no idea. Nor will she ever find out about it, about this great feat of derring-do. Not unless he fucking tells her!
But what is he doing it for?
And there now yes, the road to Stirling on the sweet sinister and there now yes, full steam ahead on the right, he has fucked off, he is making a bid for freedom. He is feart to face Old Milne on Monday morning. And there you have it. The heroic Doyle. Feart to face the fucking headmaster. In case he gets a row!
The Garthamlock turn-off. Are you not taking that either? No. Well, why bother even talking. The road to Edinburgh is soon and he will not be taking that yin too. He has decided to drive south on the road to England. So there you have it. Okay. It can be on his own head. Let it be on your own head. Okay then. Nobody in his right mind would know what to do with him. Let the damn fool stew in his own bloody fucking goose. Draw a veil over it. And so he continued thus, avoiding the road to Edinburgh, and onwards, straight ahead for England — maybe just to see how far this fucking rag tag and bobtail of a motor would take him because maybe it wouldni even get him as far as Ecclefuckingfechan, maybe no even Lesmafuckinghagow! Ha ha ha. So goodnight, buona sera ya fucking donkey.
And so he continued on.
Okay.
But his teeth were chattering. Mind you, the sleet had long ago stopped falling and the windscreen was good and clear, the wetness having given it a great clean. And the fucking engine believe it or not although this is definitely disbelievable if anything is, the engine sounded beautiful, of a crazy nostalgia of a sound. And why the fuck shouldnt it be healthy I mean for christ sake he had it fucking serviced less than three months back so’s it would get him through the winter. Regular servicing is one of his better habits. He even used to play squash! Nowadays the occasional game of table tennis. Perhaps after all it really would take him across the border. His teeth chattering once more. A distinct manifestation of the existential leap. Here he goes, into the vast unknown. Hang onto your hat! He will not do it. He’ll never get beyond the outer reaches of greater Glasgow. Such a thing is scarcely possible. He has always lacked a certain bon vivre, a certain affirmatio, a certain
Patrick Doyle, drove right out of Glasgow, late that Friday evening. He had decided to visit his old pal Eric who teaches in a technical college somewhere in the East Neuk of Anglia, not too far from the sea, where he has a boat. And upon awakening tomorrow morning Patrick would knock the fucking boat and bid adieu, continuing ever onwards, south to Dover thence Calais, Paris, Marseilles, Aragon, Barcelona, Pamplona and a quick stop off at Guernica just to see what’s what.
Ah christ Pat, call it a day. Away you go home. But look, just eh
And slow down slow down; the car moves too fast, far too fast. He has been driving as if to keep abreast of the high-and-dry fast movers on the outer lane. That is always pointless, especially in an elderly vehicle.
There were no lights now. It was sudden and it was dark. And the peace! It was so bloody quiet! He was beyond the boundaries, beyond the outermost motorway route to Stirling and Perth. He was on the M74 and heading south, south, south to the English border, home of the Auld Enemy, now curtailing the speed to a steady fifty-two m.p.h., which gave time to think and reflect, time to become accustomed to the blackness, of using the headlight beams. Eric would be glad to see him. And it was high time he re-established contact. It was bad of him not to reply to the letters the guy had sent. It really was bad. And then never having met his wife. She was probably beautiful. Eric was quite lucky with women. He used to get into ‘scrapes’ with them, these occasions where he was involved with more than one woman at a time. This lassie called Mary Busby who used to in Patrick’s opinion humiliate herself because she knew Eric had the other involvements and she would just more or less wait for him to finish. Patrick used to talk to her until one day he realised that she actually didnt like him. My christ! That was a terrible feeling that. And it was fair enough because she had recognised he was patronising her — Patrick had been patronising her. He hadni realised it until that very minute when he could see she hated him. Fair enough. The trouble is of course it’s not nice having people hate ye. It’s actually horrible. Once or twice it happens with schoolweans. Not too often thank christ because it is not good.
So little traffic around. The weather was pretty bad of course. Plus it was that quiet time between 8.30 and 10.30 in the evening. Just wait until the pubs closed and all the fucking idiots emerged from here there and everywhere, zooming, zooming — the headlights way miles behind then suddenly at your back and passing, passed, away now in front, the red dots, over the brow of the next hill.
The humming of another big articulated lorry. They all seemed to be enjoying this lull as well; a real peace and quiet; and when they passed and indicated Patrick flashed the headlights in reply, enjoying their double blink of acknowledgment, the drivers settling back into their own daydreams, putting forward their plans for the future and reflections on the past, where they had gone wrong and how come here they were where they were, at this moment in eternity, driving down the M to A74, towards the latter end of what had been a fairly depressing winter.