Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
three, this would easily be outweighed for Londoners by the benefits of even just a couple
of weeks' free driving into the city centre.
Still a fine, bright, sunny day. Not warm, but mild, even on the water. The ferry shoulders
its way through the knee-high waves; Gourock's drawn-out southern limits draw away
and I walk to the other side of the boat to watch Dunoon and Argyll come closer.
What the hell am I doing here?
It all started a few months ago, with my agent. The way things are supposed to when
you're a professional, after all. I was sitting at home in North Queensferry reading the
paper and minding my own business on a cool October day when the phone rang.
'Hello?'
'Banksie. It's Mic. I may have something for you.'
My agent is called Mic Cheetham; she's one of the best, kindest, nicest people I've
ever met, but that's in civilian mode; as an agent she has the great and invaluable merit
of treating the authors she represents like her cubs. She's the tigress, and you don't get
between her and them, or even think about doing anything unpleasant to them, unless you
want to be professionally mauled. Mic is a very good friend but when she's in full-on
agent mode I'm just mainly glad that she's on my side. What was Wellington's remark
about his troops? 'I don't know what effect they'll have upon the enemy, but, by God,
they frighten me.' Something like that.
Anyway, Mic knows through years of experience and a deep tolerance of my congen-
ital laziness that at least 95 per cent of the proposals that people contact her with con-
cerning spiffing projects they want me to be part of she can either say No to without even
asking me - though she'll always mention it later - or promise to pass on but with the
warning that there's relatively little hope that I'm actually going to say Yes.
And if Mic says she might have something for me, it must be a proposal worth think-
ing about. The last time she sounded like this I ended up driving a Formula One car round
the Magny-Cours circuit in deepest France for
Car
magazine and having a great time
(with reservations; I discovered I'm really a pretty rubbish track driver).
'Uh-huh?' I said, successfully containing my excitement.
'How do you fancy being driven round every distillery in Scotland in a taxi and drink-
ing lots of whisky? And then writing a book about it? For a not insubstantial sum. What
d'you think? Eh? Hmm? Interested?'
I was so excited I think I took my feet off the desk.
I thought quickly (no, really). 'Can I drive the taxi?'
'Then you can't drink.'
'I'll do the drinking later.'
'Then I don't see why not.'
'Why a taxi anyway?'
