SOMEWHERE off the west coast of Scotland, on a mid-November weekday, a pale figure stumbled ever sea-ward. Was it a topless White Walker? Or the final indignity of Reginald Perrin? Of course not. It was a pasty Glaswegian with no shirt and less shame, finally finding freedom in the Firth of Clyde.
Growing up riddled with anxiety means inevitably missing out on a whole host of important rites of passage.
Seriously, I’m surprised I ever found my way from one corridor to the next. There were no bike-shed moments or drunken disgraces, and my only gap year was a heavily-medicated period in my twenties from which my memories are as muddied as my memories.
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