Quickly tiring of the limited attractions offered by the East coast dump that is Edinburgh, Silvercup took a day out to visit the city of shining light and goodness that is Glasgow. Much to her chagrin, she ran into me.

Some people have all the luck, eh?

Working along the lines of my usual Saturday tactics, i.e. accosting every blonde in sight, I found her fairly quickly - in fact she was the first person I approached. Having described myself as accurately as possible down the phone the previous day (skinny, bald, glasses, mad-looking), she got over her initial nausea and the urge to run screaming over the horizon at the sight of me impressively quickly.

In true tight-fisted Scots style, I suggested that instead of buying a proper lunch we buy junk food, jump on the underground, and wander round the Kelvingrove Museum and Art gallery.

For those of you that read my previous post about art, then you'll notice that this is the one that has had the majority of the interesting pieces removed and shipped to the US.

The conversation on the Underground was a little bit stilted, not so much because of a lack of anything to say, more due to the Godawful screaming and howling of the Underground system itself, combined with the oddly sulfurous smells that permeate the air. Needless to say, many an atmnospheric D&D game has been held in the tunnels by enterprising GMs once the trains are shut down of an evening.

Our trip round the Museum was a lot of fun, as I've never been a tour guide before, and I tried my best to keep Silvercup on her toes with the facts about Scotland I was disseminating.

For example:

Sometimes, when the soldiers at Edinburgh Castle get bored, they fire a garden gnome out of the one o' clock gun. (FALSE)

The Art Gallery/Museum was built back to front, and the aerchitect committed suicide because of it. (TRUE)

By the way - John Knox - Founder of the Presbyterian Church, theologian and preacher. Instrumental in the Protestant reformation of Scotland, apparently. I was a bit off in my (supposedly educated guess).

But then again, he never ran down a field wielding a big sword so it's not really interesting history, now is it?

We both liked the sword exhibit, and I found Silvercup's theory that swords bought in Scotland are better than those bought in the US (because we got to use them) very funny. She baulked at my suggestion that she could run a couple of people through with one just to give it that authentic feel. I'm sure wintermute will agree with my assertion that they're only Scots, after all. You can still legally kill a Scotsman in certain part of England.

The walk back through Glasgow to the station was entertaining, including an encounter with a genuine Weejie crumble - a gent of advancing years who resembles the antagonist from a zombie movie - trying to blag cigarettes off of passers-by.

Obviously on a trip across the pond, an American must try all of the things that you would never experience in the US. I racked my brains the evening previously to think of the quintessential Scottish experience. The result? A Tunnocks Teacake (circle of biscuit topped with a dome of gooey cream, all covered in chocolate), A Tunnocks Caramel wafer (defies description), a Snowball (NOT the cocktail - discarded after it got crushed in my bag), and the crowniong glory, a can of Irn Bru.

The high point of the visit was Irn Bru. Silvercup actually sniffed it as if testing for poison before trying a sip. The verdict?

"I've had worse drinks."

A shining reccomendation there, I think you'll agree.

In line with the "trying new non-US things", we had a coffee in Starbucks. As you do. Although I don't think even I have had a coffee in Starbucks that involved a stumbling child with vacant eyes trying to trample my bags. So she can still tick the new experience box on that one.

We returned to the train station, where she retrieved the BIGGEST RUCKSACK EVER PURCHASED from left luggage, posed for a photo op (courtesy of a slightly incoherent ned who I thought was going to try and run off with her camera), and then saw her on her merry way back to Edinburgh.

And that's it. My very first Rinkmeet*.

Bo"next up: the rest of the UK Rinkies"urne



* Yes, Dixie I *know* that you're a Rinkie but we knew each other from before so don't phone me up to screech indignantly. And don't say you wouldn't have done because you would. It's the only joy you get, giving me verbal chafe.