Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
He ended up working for a firm called Save and Prosper, which I said at the time was a
little like King Herod working for Mothercare, but then I can be cruel. Ann and I met at
work shortly after I'd joined the firm, then moved in together the following year. In 1983
we went to live in Faversham, in Kent, closer to Ann's parents in Canterbury but still a
reasonable commute to London.
I will never be allowed to forget the fact that once, when Ann and I had the house in
Faversham and Jim still lived in London, the three of us were on holiday, driving north
up the side of Loch Lomond, when Jim suggested stopping to take a photograph of the
view looking back the way we'd come, and I said something like, 'Yeah, I think there's a
lay-by just round this corner, you can get a good view down the lake from there.'
'The
what
, Banksie? A good view down the
what
?'
'Oh shit,' I said. 'I said “lake”, didn't I?'
Ann was laughing quietly.
Jim shook his head, a great big smile on his face. 'Oh dear oh dear oh dear. You've
been down south
far
too long, El Bonko.'
'And you're going to tell everybody, aren't you?'
He shrugged as we pulled into the lay-by. 'You've brought it on yourself, pal; I've no
sympathy. Anyway, if I'd said something like that, would
you
let
me
off? Eh?'
I thought about this. I sighed. 'Fair enough.'
We stop for a fag break at Fort William - smoking is banned in the cars. It's another fab-
ulous day and the weather is getting positively warm. We stand in the loch-side car park
at the southern end of the town centre and look out at the loch and the hills on the far side.
Dave is the oldest of the three of us; just over 50 now (we work out that 50 is our
average age). Like me he's bearded, though even greyer; almost white. Jim looks exactly
like Robert De Niro in
Jackie Brown
, something I find startling. Not as startling as he
does, though.
'Really?' He looks quite pleased.
'Oh, yeah,' I tell him. 'Though it has to be said that Robert De Niro looks pretty shit
in
Jackie Brown
.'
Jim sniffs. 'Well, fuck off then.'
Dave is our official driver for the week and is even getting paid for the privilege, the
vestigial remnant of the garrulous Glaswegian in the original concept for this topic (well,
it is his profession, and taxi drivers don't get paid holidays). He walks round the car, kick-
ing the Jag's tyres. 'You sure this old thing's up to taking us round Speyside for a week?'
'It's the youngest of the the four of us, Dave,' I tell him, pointedly. 'And it hasn't let
us down yet, has it?'
'Hmm,' Dave concedes, 'not yet.'
'Exactly, and has anything fallen off?'
