Welcome to Aberdeen, the Silver City by the Sea: Blair Kensington, the Oil Baroness

By Nicky Mair

Who is Blair Kensington?

An American socialite arrives in Aberdeen, Scotland, and rocks the oil industry, moving the circles of power, introducing Aberdonians to royalty, politicians, and titans of the industry. The grey granite stone, on which the city is built, changes from drab and dreary and becomes the Silver City by the Sea. The madam can move mountains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662477942

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Welcome to Aberdeen, the Silver City by the Sea

Blair Kensington, the Oil Baroness

Nicky Mair

Copyright © 2022 Nicky Mair

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author, Blair Kensington or any affiliated companies.

Media of Blair Kensington cannot and will not be replicated or distributed without permission or her publishers or any affiliated group companies.

ISBN 978-1-6624-7793-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7794-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Ham and Pineapple

Everyone Needs Good Neighbours—That's When Good Neighbours Become Good Friends

ABZ—Aberdeen International Airport

Security

Up the Ladder—First Rung

Chicken or Pasta?

Rock Star—Upgraded

Muppet—Downgraded

Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals

The Galleria

New Beginnings

Ms. Havva Laugh

Dolly

Museum of Culture

James Harrow

Outback Somewhere

Goddess

Visitation and Holding Court

À Votre Santé

Home

A Missed Wedding

Fiona's Departure

Afternoon Tea

Queen's Cross

Café Society

Pomme Frites

Manor Events

Josh

Manor Events II

Funeral Tea

Northerners

Goddess Salad

Lettuce

A Wee Cabernet in Market Street

The Refinery Club

Family and Flight

Leon

Diana

Blair Kensington

Kolache Factory

Oliver Twist

Strip Search

Oil Executive

Rashid—Scam Artist

Banchory—Royal Deeside

Grand Opening Night

8-Gate

A New City Council

Rest Up

The Beach Ballroom

Pets

Festive Season

The Book of Revelations

Ahn-truh-pruh-nur

The Grandest of Parties

Aberdeen Royal Infirmary

Flight KO 032 ABZ/LHR

Sir Wellington

Molly

Karma

About the Author

Influence is currency.

—Blair Kensington, OBE

Be a girl with a mind, a woman with an attitude, and a lady with class.

—Cameron's mother

Personality has the power to uplift, power to depress, power to curse, and power to bless.

—Paul P. Harris

A fragrance that matches the personality of the man or woman who wears it is an integral part of the memory that you have on him or her. It goes without saying that it's a formidable weapon of seduction.

—Dree Hemingway

Prologue

Mate, can I help you?

Cameron was sitting on the church steps in the graveyard just off Union Street, in his hometown of Aberdeen, Scotland, drunk and crying. It was Christmas Eve at 8:02 p.m.

No, I'm fine, thanks.

Are you? the stranger replied.

Leave it, mate.

Okay, but it's not that bad, son. Santa's on his way, buddy.

Damn it, I need to do something with my life, he thought, as he headed back to his flat near Holburn Junction. He'd been drinking, so he was acting a little moody and insecure. He shouldn't have been; he was well past puberty. Having gone for drinks with pals, they had a good time, and now look at him, sitting on some church steps, greeting for his mammy. He wasn't religious, but he was praying for a change to his life. Are you listening to me, God, or too busy getting ready for the service tomorrow?

Cameron walked home. He wanted more out of life, and of course, he was funny—hilarious, actually—in his head. Merry Christmas 1998.

Welcome to the Silver City by the Sea with the Golden Sands

Descriptive: written by Mr. Cameron Discreet McFintry, circa late AD 1990s.

Boyishly handsome. Dark blond hair, blue eyes. Eleven stone two pounds. Swimmer's build (with guns). Caucasian, with a very light tan (just back from holiday in Spain). Twenty-three years old. Six-foot male.

Education: a local grammatical school, no college or university.

Marital Status: recently single (dodged a bullet) and ready to mingle.

Appendage: blessed.

Employment: energy company, soon-to-be club manager.

Travel: Santa Ponsa (resort), Spain; Magaluf (resort), Spain; London (world-class city), England; Banchory (resort), Royal Deeside, Scotland; Dundee (hamlet) via train, first-class cabin, Scotland; Kirriemuir (village)—had a ball; Glenrothes—no comment.

Drinks: Bacardi, Morgan's Spiced Rum, Tennent's Lager (tops), Malibu, and Coke.

Clothes: Preppy and generally commando.

Ham and Pineapple

The alarm went off for the early-morning flight from Aberdeen, Scotland, to Amsterdam in the Netherlands (ABZ-AMS).

Cameron showered, pulled on his new Levi's 501 jeans, Fred Perry polo shirt, and a new pair of shoes from Man at Burton's. He was waiting for a taxi and checked again, like he had ten times the night before, that all sockets were unplugged; windows locked; heating off; curtains drawn, and his answering machine message said, Call when you can, write when you want, and remember me in the meantime. He was to be away, eighty-seven days to be precise, and no one was checking in on the flat.

If someone was to checking in on the flat, he'd have to tidy the cupboards, sort the wardrobe, and clean the dirty shower screen. That glass never seems to clean well. His family would snoop for sure, if he let them. His second cousin would snoop because she wanted to be in his pants. She was always just staring at him, longingly—to be honest with you.

Mary had said that she would be more than happy to look in on the flat. However, if you'd met Mary Cromwell, you'd know she would likely have a party in the flat and drink the bottle of Bacardi from the bedroom cupboard. Mary could smell alcohol from around six feet. She liked a drink, did Mary—like her damned mother—and that was just fine with Cameron. The issue is, the bottle of Bacardi is limited edition.

Do you like a Bacardi? What's your tipple of choice?

His grandma's tipple of choice was sherry, but that's just because she's old. She's as old as the hills she is.

He checked his passport, wallet, and the forty-five dollars he'd got from work, which was for emergency only, and they'd been very clear about that, as if he would use it for beer or something. If he didn't need the money, he was to give it to his boss at work when he got to the other side. That money would be tracked by the finance director for sure, down to the last penny. In fact, Cameron was pretty sure if she could put a tracker on the money, she would have done so. She was something else, her. Perhaps she didn't get pocket money when she was a kid, and that's why she watched every penny like it was hers or something. She was reputedly a man-eater, but that was just secondhand information from the warehouse guy. Supposedly she'd eaten the warehouse manager's cousin one July. He did turn up eventually in the Cocket Hat pub and ordered a lager though. He was exhausted but safe, thank God. His mother would be delighted, hopefully!

* * *

A person from Aberdeen is called an Aberdonian, and Aberdonians have a reputation for being tight with money—tight, meaning greedy. It's just not true, but reputations can run legs with the uneducated. Yes, the finance director was tight, and that part was true. She was a nice enough woman but tight as a two-bob note, Like her arse, Ben had said.

Ben, Cameron's, BFF, had met her once at the Star and Garter pub, and he'd said, She has a face like a nippy sweetie.

(Nippy: Bitter, like a lemon or an olive, arctic, glacial, sharp

and

Sweetie: Candy or M&Ms (A: American) or like Maltesers or a Yorkie (UK: Great Britain).

Do you know anyone with a bitter-lemon face?

Are you sure?

In truth, Aberdonians—real Aberdonians, not the ones born in a barn; no, the ones born and raised in the Granite City—are some of the most generous people Cameron had ever met. They are always willing to buy you a pint or a bag of chips. They won't buy you a sausage roll or a buttery (rowie) though because they are Aberdeen delicacies. Oh, and they won't help you at work. Aberdonians are too driven themselves to really want you to get up in the world. Everyone's striving to be better than you—in the Aberdeen way. His parents weren't like that though, as they just didn't like the Joneses next door, so they felt no reason to keep up with them.

So people pretend to be happy for you if you get a promotion, but inside, they are seething mad and smile. Oh, congratulations. That's what Ben said anyway. Cameron wasn't fussed. He was a McFintry and able to keep up with anybody, in his head, after a few pints. Cameron had a lot of conversations with himself. Do you? Do you just talk to yourself a lot? It's a little scary, isn't it?

When the weekend comes though, it's all camaraderie at the karaoke bar singing How Deep Is Your Love. Some of the girls—like Sandra at work—thinks she really is Ms. Patsy Cline. Do you know that Patsy song Crazy? Cameron had just heard it because he'd met his sister at Tattlers' Lounge just off the city's main street, and she was in a singing mood, unfortunately. She gets that way when she's had a couple of days off, cleaned house, and had a couple cider and blackcurrants at breakfast. Happy as Larry, as they say, and perhaps a little crazy herself.

Speaking of promotion though, a guy at work—a little entitled to say the least—was annoyed he didn't get the supervisor's job. Well, he shouldn't because he had no skill at that. He was so infatuated with money that he'd spent his whole life so far deceiving people to get it. Even at the bingo, he called house when it wasn't and was always first in line at the buffet—and the last to leave! Cameron tried to get a drink from him once, but there's more chance of getting a Corneto from the pope of the Vatican. He'd never buy you a pint with his own money, like ever, probably like the pope too.

His workmate was an original hatched Abermoanian, so there were anomalies to true Aberdeen generosity. Cameron told Ben he was embarrassed the guy was Scottish, and he should be, too, giving Scots a bad name like that. Cameron didn't care about being better than anyone. He just competed with himself, like when he does yoga at the YMCA or dances in front of the mirror after a shower. He was quite good to be fair.

Londoners were greedy too. Cameron had been there once and tried hard to get a pint. As the barman said, you were as nice as ninepence to everyone at the bar but never got one free drink, and beer was expensive in a London pub, more costly than in Aberdeen, if you could believe that. They were in the Star Tavern—that's where the great train robbers planned the big robbery—you know, like in the film.

Cameron and Ben weren't in London to rob anyone though. They just wanted free drinks and find someone to shag. Not together, of course; that would be wrong. It would be on separate days.

They took the Caledonian sleeper train to go see the staterooms at Buckingham Palace because the Queen opened the palace up for private tours. The queen didn't show the rooms though; it was her footmen and serviettes. Cameron knew the queen was there of course, because the flag, called the Royal Standard, was at full mast. Oh, for those not in the know, a serviette within high social circles is a very well-groomed server, male or female, wearing bearskin hats.

The serviettes were very polite and well groomed, though Cameron had hoped they would have offered a cup of tea and a scone with jam instead of just loitering in doorways with their funny hats on and looking at you like you were about to steal the family china.

Ben thought it was amazing the Queen had footmen to do her feet, but she couldn't get a cup of tea. He'd said that because he likes his big toe sucked. It was a fetish. His last girlfriend, loosely termed, wouldn't suck it, so it wasn't going to work out long term, was it? If your partner wanted their toe sucked, what would you do? Do you think sucking a big toe is a fetish? Cameron's boss didn't think so.

Anyhow, Cameron told him someone sucking his toe was disgusting because of the fungus, but Ben does what Ben does. There was just no telling him. He was quite stubborn and a little lazy, to be honest. He'd probably get a job with the council one day. It wasn't his toe Cameron wanted sucking, but that's for another day and another time. He had some funny ideas; Ben did. Ben was his friend though, so he supported him and his big toe.

They didn't let you take a dip in the swimming pool at the palace either, and they had taken their swimming trunks with them. Why, the security laughed when they pulled out the trunks, which still annoys Cameron to this day. It was a bloody cheek. They also wanted to see the kitchens.

I just want to see how she can prepare a state dinner for like a thousand people, Ben said.

They feed the four thousand on the QE2 ship. They have a full deck to prepare. Cameron scoffed.

Well, she has a whole palace and Clarence House. Ben frowned.

Clarence House is the Queen Mother's.

Yes, but surely, her mum would let her use the kitchen for a party. It will be hers when she dies anyhow.

Shut up, Ben.

No, you shut up.

Ben stole some soap from the half bath in the palace. He wasn't supposed to go in.

Jesus, Ben, there was a ribbon thing in front of the door.

I cut it, like in a ceremony.

She'll have you beheaded.

Her and whose army?

Hers.

Cameron didn't acquire anything from the palace. He wouldn't. He was from Rosemount, and someone from Rosemount would never dream of stealing Imperial Leather. At the gift shop, he did buy some HRH toilet paper, soft five-ply tissue with built-in moisturiser. He figured guests and those who invite themselves to his flat would like that. Some of them could be right royal shits, if you can excuse the language, and them.

Wonder what the queen's having for her tea, Ben? Cameron said as he wound up a clock.

Cucumber sandwiches and sticky toffee pudding I would think.

"Nah, I think it's curry they're having. Didn't you smell it in the white drawing room? Do you know she lives in a couple rooms next to the drawing room? She walks through a mirror thing to get there. It was a secret door, and she slipped through there often 'cause she was not going to go all the way to the kitchens to make her tea, was she? It would take ages and be cold when she got back, and on top of that, she got the corgis to take care of—lots of them.

Well, she shouldn't be making biryani when she's giving tours though. Ben scoffed.

She can do whatever she wants. She's the queen.

Whatever. Hope she hasn't got a meeting afterwards with all that gas.

Ben, she doesn't get gas. She's the queen.

Queen or not, she gets gas. Maybe she had the curry yesterday. Think of that lady in your tenement, Cameron.

Oh, shut up.

No, you shut up.

* * *

Cameron looked out the window from his flat. The taxi still hadn't arrived, and he was getting anxious. He checked the fridge for the leftover pizza. It was leftover as he hadn't drunk enough beer. His sister came round to say Have a good work trip the day before. She didn't like the ham and pineapple pizza he cooked, so she'd hand carried in a chicken tikka masala meal from Marks and Spencer's and microwaved it. Good thing the microwave was working because the oven broke at the end of his pizza bake. The dough was underbaked, but he didn't tell his sister the oven broke. He just chewed. She would have lectured him to spend his money on an oven and not at his local pub on Tennent's lager tops. Now, for people out with the Commonwealth and Americans, lager tops is when they put a dash of lemonade on top of the lager. It's really fine like.

He was glad his sister had finished her chicken tikka though, as masala smells the flat out when there's leftovers, like the Queen's biry-annie. It gets in the walls or something, along with the Magnolia paint. It's hard to mask. In fact, the whole tenement stairwell had this Indian aroma meandering through all four floors every Sunday night with Bombay Mary in the top-left flat. Doesn't the smell go upwards?

On Tuesdays, the tenement smelt of fish and chips. Cameron thought it was the twins above him. They just looked like they would eat that daily. Chicken tikka masala is best though, isn't it? How it became a British national dish, he could never understand. Isn't it Indian?

Alison, his friend and plus one for parties read a lot of books on history, and she said India was part of the British Commonwealth but had declared purna swaraj, meaning independence.

Well, we kept the tikka, clearly.

Ben made fun of Alison because she liked to use words that people didn't know. It's like she swallowed a thesaurus instead of the curry.

* * *

The Scottish national dish is haggis. It's a rare delicacy and only for people who understand real cuisine. Haggis would get three Michelin stars if they knew how to rate things properly, unlike those frog things they eat in France.

When Cameron was little, his grandad would tell him stories.

Haggis is a creature in the forest, way up in the Scottish Highlands. Its left and right legs are of different lengths, allowing it to run quickly around the steep mountains and hillsides. They are a bugger to catch but oh so tasty when you do. Grandma cooks them medium rare.

Cameron's mum always said, Stop saying bugger in front of my little boy.

Piss off was the answer. It was just banter.

By his age, Cameron already learned what a vag was and thought he was quite sophisticated, to be honest, so words like bugger and piss off were nothing. He heard these swear words at his nursery every day. His mum was so naive.

It's hard to ship haggis out of Scotland as it's a protected animal. His dad said it didn't matter because they only eat at McDonald's in America, and they wouldn't eat a haggis burger anyhow 'cause it's too healthy.

They eat all that hot dogs, popcorn, and barbecue stuff.

All together, Dad?

No, they wouldn't eat it all together, son. They'd get a sore tummy.

Anyhow, and back to the point where this food talk started, who in their right mind doesn't like ham and pineapple pizza? Do you? What's not to like?

Sweet and sour.

Apples and oranges.

Chalk and cheese.

Bill and Ben (the flowerpot men).

Ham and pineapple.

Cameron's brother likes sweet and sour chicken from Chinese John on Rosemount Place, up from the Masada Bar, but not ham and pineapple. It defies reason, doesn't it? It's like biology or something. Cameron bagged the remaining pizza. He was going to have to drop it in the rubbish at the airport, as he didn't have a freezer to put it in.

Everyone Needs Good Neighbours—That's When Good Neighbours Become Good Friends

It was 4:20 a.m. when the taxi eventually pulled up, twenty minutes late, and beeped the horn. Did he have to beep four times? Jeez, Louise! The whole street will be up now, for fuck's sake.

He was sure his next-door neighbour would be up and watching from behind the blinds, looking for his fix. He was a nice guy—the neighbour. He'd had a great career with Aberdeen Football Club, wiping down the seats after a game, then he retired and just went cuckoo. Went clean off the top shelf, he did. He would sometimes sing during the night, and everyone in the tenement could hear him. To be fair, he was pretty good, and he took requests at Christmastime.

Last Christmas, he also took Mrs. Heckingbottom's virginity after a sesh at the pub, but that's another story. Yes, Heckingbottom's a real name, believe it or not, and she was visiting from down south, past the border somewhere, near Motherwell supposedly. She'd tried to beat the world record for eating the most baked beans with chopsticks. She got to sixty-eight. Have you ever tried to do that? Cameron hoped it wasn't when she lost her virginity. Cameron hadn't because he was a little too busy for that.

Cameron asked his neighbour to sing Oh Come All Ye Faithful at Christmas and Once in Royal David City as they were his favourite Christmas songs. His neighbour was gay or, as his grandad said, a homosexual; so Ben had said it was probably Once in David. Cameron didn't play up to that game though. He wouldn't. Just that little bit classier.

Only once, Ben, that'd be boring?

His grandma's favourite song was The Old Rugged Cross. She used to sing it at Hogmanay when she was drunk with Johnny Black. Cameron had his peanuts and cheese cubes. That's why he loved New Year—oh, and the pickled onions and beetroot.

Anyhow, if the neighbour wasn't watching him, certainly Lou over the road was. They both never slept. Each time you looked over the street, the curtain moved. Lou was always watching him coming and going. Loopy Lou and the Baptist—they'd go crazy wondering where he was.

Lou really was loopy. She used to live with her dog—Sheddocksley—until the dog died of a tumour. The street residentials put money together and bought her a new dog. That was just four weeks ago, and Lou now owns Sir Arthur Conan Doyle V Jr., a Scottish terrier, who she calls Doylies, for short, because (1) it's just not cool to walk a dog saying, Walkies, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the Fifth Jr. all the time in the park or at Fine Fare. It'd be too much, wouldn't it? And (2) do you know the paper doylies you get at parties? Well, Lou makes them in her art and craft classes. Cameron buys them as Christmas presents instead of socks. He's being stopped getting invited to any Christmas parties now.

Lou's a nervous wee soul, though. She used to own a shop in Dyce near the airport selling sandwiches, cream puffs, and other fine pieces, all homemade, at the shop. She had sold custard slices to the Queen for events at Balmoral Castle, and the newspaper did a write up about it. It was a good article, but they didn't show the custard slices for some reason.

Lou and the Baptist were harmless though, and Cameron liked living in a community. Everyone watched out for everyone else there. His own little part of the world.

A hairdresser moved out of number 7, and a plumber had moved in after he had moved in on her. They'd met at Peep Peeps—the toughest pub in Aberdeen, for some. Number 7 had been out at a henny party, as she was horny. Just to be blatantly honest with you, she wanted a shag, or so said Barbara, who was a barmaid at Peeps. She lived upstairs, two doors down. Two real estate agents had moved in at number 22, but Cameron hadn't met them yet. He had been wanting to see them to rate them.

Cameron thought it would be good to list what everyone's profession is in the street. If you knew there was a painter, why not use them instead of some painter from Doric—the esteemed painters in town, where he'd worked previously before he became a jet-setting oilman. Cameron stained the round bar at Cupid's Bar, you know—the pink one—when it opened. It caused quite a stir.

Supposedly, there was also a nice piece of arse at number 18. Cameron's an arse, too, but he wouldn't want that listed in a street directory. The man at number 23 was called Harry McBride, and he lived on the ground floor, on the left. He always walked up and down the street checking windows and doors when everyone worked. Fair enough, apart from being naked when he did it, well, wrapped in the Scottish flag covering his nether regions. Basically, he was a fat bastard, so it was probably best he covered up the man boobs from eating too much chips, like his brother.

Mr. McBride was slightly melancholy but not on Saturdays. That's when he went to the Malt Mill bar to watch fitba and had a wee sherry too much. Then he walked up his street singing football songs, like clockwork. Whether his team won or lost or even played, he'd sing. That's a true supporter, isn't it? Do you walk around singing football songs at ASDA when your team isn't playing?

See, it's an interesting street, isn't it? Cameron was normal, though. On a scale of 1–10, he was nearly an 8, which is impressive for someone born and raised in Rosemount. There isn't an official rating system. It's just something Cameron and his pals had created one Saturday night down pub eating chicken tenders, chips, and mushy peas. Alison didn't have the peas though as she doesn't like them much. She ordered asparagus with hers, which isn't normal, is it? Asparagus made Cameron's pee green for some reason. He never discussed it with anyone. He just didn't eat it. It didn't happen with beetroot, so he did worry about it.

With the taxi waiting, he'd taken his leftover pizza and locked up the flat. It was pitch-black outside other than the streetlights, and he felt the cold wind coming round the corner as he opened the tenement door and carried his luggage to the taxi.

Couldn't you have just come and knocked on the window? he asked the taxi driver.

No, it's fucking freezing, son. The taxi driver had a bad attitude, but Cameron was in no mood to argue as he was headed to America. He was a little busy to be arguing with taxi drivers.

* * *

Seagulls were circling overhead looking for early morning scraps from last night's fish and chips that someone dropped. People do that a lot, especially in Holburn Street. Fish and chips are wrapped in newspaper, and you traditionally eat them walking home. Then the selfish people who don't care about anything but themselves just drop the newspaper. If you knew where the chipper was, the timing of the dropped paper makes sense. It takes about six minutes to eat, so just as you pass Willowbank Place, the litter starts. Cameron wouldn't do that, of course. Too proper like.

Have you ever dropped your fish paperwork or Styrofoam from the kebab shop? If it's you, stop it and grow up. It's not all about you. You don't live in England, you know. Keep Scotland Tidy is a slogan, so behave.

Seagulls circling overhead are just part of the landscape in the city, like Slack Alice, the lady of the night. She's the city damsel or as his grandad corrected everyone, a prostitute. Slack Alice was a far-off cousin of Snuffy Ivy and tried to live up to her reputation in Aberdeen. If you don't know Snuffy, ask your grandad; he'll know for sure.

Snuffy was well-known in Aberdeen in her day. She had a cleft palate, epilepsy, and tuberculosis (TB), and she charged a shilling to the farmers for a blow job. Alice herself would do anything for a pack of fags and twenty pounds. She had a fat kind of face, like a tattie, or as his grandad said, a potato.

Cameron's grandad was very proper, constantly correcting your pronunciation. He had come from a good family, or good stock as they say, whoever they are, and he'd gone to elocution lessons to learn to talk all proper, like speaking with a plum in your mouth.

Have you ever had someone's plums in your mouth?

Try it. Next time you get the sausage, get some plums too. If it doesn't help you talk all proper, you can just eat them, so there is no waste.

Anyhow, just in case you're visiting Aberdeen, a word of advice—because it won't be in the tourist guides—but you'll find Slack Alice whirling around on the Torry 10 or Northfield 22 bus routes. Her boyfriend is a bus conductor. She entertains the passengers during the day while he collects the money. You'll need to check the schedule. Do it discreetly, though; just say you're looking for Murdo's pub. It's code, and Arthur at the tourist office will know what you mean. Alice also heads to the Covenanter's Bar on a Tuesday for the two-for-one special meal, or is it her? He can't remember. If you find out, can you let Cameron know?

* * *

At that very exact moment, a bloody, massive seagull thudded on top of the taxi, and it scared both Cameron and the taxi driver. These gulls were getting bigger and bigger, and he recalled a saying where someone says, Who ate all the pies? Cameron thought it was the seagulls eating all the pies with their size or Alice.

It was colder than expected and windier too, and his bag was heavy. There was no help from the taxi driver. He just sat listening to North Sound radio with Nicky Campbell. It was the beginning of February, and that can be bleak in Aberdeen, Scotland, at that time. Summers are great, with long days, but winter can be challenging. He had his balaclava with him now and sun cream for his trip.

See, ham and pineapple.

He got into the warm taxi, and the driver was talkative. Oh no, brace yourself, Cameron—taxi driver chatter. As soon as he sat down, there was a clicking sound. Child locks. Gee, do I look like I won't pay or something? In those first few seconds of meeting, is that my first impression?

The driver told Cameron that he just dropped off three girls at the Treetops Hotel wearing the shortest skirts ever with no jackets. He questioned whether they were wearing underwear too, but Cameron didn't acknowledge. He wouldn't. That's because he didn't care if they did have their knickers on or not. They come off quick enough anyhow. They probably weren't wearing any as the driver said they were from the hamlet of Dundee.

Legend has it that Cameron's great-grandfather battered fish there but also battered a guy near the docks for stealing his Timex watch. Then he pushed him into the River Tay. It was January, so it must have been fucking freezing, and he left him for dead. Cameron's great-grandad was a tough guy. It runs in the family, of course. If someone tried to steal Cameron's Saint Christopher chain, which was a birthday present from his ex, he would have battered them too and pushed them into tomorrow, never mind the River Tay.

* * *

At that moment, the taxi hit a pothole. The city council spent more of the Common Good Fund to fund themselves and Christmas parties at the Town House than appropriating the money correctly to fix the roads or re-winning the Daffodils in Bloom awards, which the city was very well-known for, down Anderson Drive.

And the taximan continued talking.

Can you believe it? Bloody idiots in this weather…walking around like that catching the death of cold. Wouldn't be my daughters, if I had any, I'd tell you that for nothing. I have a son, and he wears his football scarf all the time in this weather. I see you have your balaclava with you, good man. Are you from Aberdeen?

Yes, Rosemount.

That makes sense then.

Too bloody right. Rosemount is walkable from the town centre and is absolutely the best place to live in the city. No debate, no ifs, ands, or buts. His cousins didn't agree, but what would they know? They lived in Drumnadrochit, and Cameron didn't even know if they had a school or even a pub there. Can you imagine?

* * *

Oh no, I'm the one who gets the taxi driver who just loves a bloody chat in the early morning.

The taximan continued his repertoire that he had scolded the girls about them getting the flu. He said they just laughed as they haven't a skiffy down in Dundee. He told them that twenty years from now, they would think differently. One of the girls was about to be sick, so he had to stop the car, supposedly, unlatched the child locks, and asked her to get out. He wasn't having his morning rides ruined by having to clean up someone's sick. Who would pay for that?

I'd get their bloody mothers to pay for it, see what happens then, he continued, or the wife can clean it. She loves a chamois and cleans ‘up the road at the school.' The only problem had been the deputy headmaster. He's from Fannyfields, and she felt clammy around him. You know what I mean? Just dirty. Turns out later, he was a kiddy fiddler and got sacked. Disgusting. He never went near the taxi-drivers wife, though. Mind you, she was twenty-one at the time, so a little too old maybe. Anyhow, Cameron hadn't really felt dirty around anyone, so no, he didn't know what the taximan meant.

Keep quiet, Cameron, and don't give the driver any reason to continue talking. Just pretend you are looking at your itinerary.

It didn't matter that Cameron was mute. The driver moaned about the girls, the weather, the cost of petrol, the price of tea in China, the deputy head, anything, everything, and Margaret Thatcher. He had a thing about Maggie, the Iron Lady. Cameron couldn't figure if he liked her or loathed her. It's hard to know with politics as people change their principles to suit the day, and most people were just not a smart as the McFintrys. It's like these new vegetarians who eat fish too.

The roads were quiet, and by the time Cameron got a word in edgeways, they were at ABZ—Aberdeen International Airport. International being a very loose term. You'd know what that means if you were there before the millennia. Gosh, British taxi drivers love a chat. That's why they do the job, isn't it? They are the same in Spain, but you can't understand them. They just point and laugh all the time and say Looky looky, like the stewardesses on the Aviaco flights. His dad or his brother would love being a taxi driver 'cause they also like talking to themselves too.

Cameron loved a chat just like anyone else but not at 4:30 a.m. unless he had taken someone home, and they'd slept over. With Cameron's stamina, by 4:30 a.m., they would probably be just going to sleep, spent.

ABZ—Aberdeen International Airport

Scottish Gaelic: Port-adhair Eadar-naiseanta Obar Dheathain, approximately five nautical miles from the city centre.

Clarted is a word used in Aberdeen when someone has really heavy makeup on—thick, like an inch! The lady at the ticket desk was clarted. Cameron really wanted to tell her. She was probably pretty underneath, as she had nice features when you took your sunglasses off, really stared at her, and squinted your eyes a little.

She seemed very busy and serious as he stood for like two minutes. Now in the grand scheme of life, two minutes wasn't long, but when you were standing at the airport ticket counter and hungry for a bacon sandwich, it seemed like an eternity. Eventually, there was life in her eyes; she looked up from the desk and then back down again.

Damn it. Didn't she see me? Surely?

She looked up. Quickly, smile, Cameron. That'll get her attention.

Passport, please, she said and looked back down.

Jeez.

Mr. Cameron McFintry, where are you headed today, young man?

Houston, Texas, he replied in an American drawl.

She paid no real attention as she was hypnotised to the screen.

This is it, you see—the modern days. Folks do it all day now, at work or in the shop, at the travel agents, the bookies, and now at the airport clearly. Everyone is just staring at screens all day.

Our generation will all be blind by thirty if we're not careful, walking around like blind zombies, Fiona had said. Fiona was his pal, and she had cancer.

Okay, let me take a look, but I'm not sure they'll let you into the States, though.

Oh, now she was trying to be funny. She'd have to get up earlier to catch Cameron when he comes to wit.

Of course, they will, and Cameron asked her to read the inside page of his passport. They did, in unison.

Her Britannic Majesty's secretary of state requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.

So who's not letting me in? If they give me hindrance, I'll bloody tell them. They need to protect me. I'm Scottish meat, Cameron said proudly.

You'll need to put a few pounds on then, you are too skinny for me, Cameron, she mocked.

Cameron was more of a nuisance than a hindrance anyhow, and he was sure she hadn't seen a six-pack, unless, of course, it was from the off-license.

Well, Mr. Cameron, if Her Majesty herself is saying to let you in, they'd better.

Exactly, or she'll have them beheaded in the tower of London with a beefeater. Do you know the Queen likes a biry-annie?

Oh, too spicy for me, Cameron. It goes right through me. Never off the toilet pot. So Texas then. Well, that's a step better than Newcastle, I must say. Oh, they've a lovely ale there, you know—Newky Brown, lovely jubbely, she reminisced, glassy eyed.

Does she have a glass eye? he wondered.

He looked along the ticket counters and screens. There weren't any flights to Newcastle. Cameron wanted an aisle seat as he needs to move around during the flight, and the big flight from Amsterdam was going to be a trek. He got all hot and bothered when he was placed in the window seat or the middle seat—God forbid. No one normal likes the middle seat, do they? Even if it's your wife or a travelling partner. Do you? It's just not normal. If you have codependency issues like that, you shouldn't be flying; you need therapy. It's true. Everyone wants space on a flight unless, of course, the passenger next to you is ten out of ten, then you change your mind a little. It's okay; we're allowed.

Do you think Cameron would want to sit beside you? Because Cameron would rather you didn't. Without you sitting next to him, he could put his Walkman down, newspapers, and have room for his chicken dinner. He just needed to get up and stretch his legs or go pee without everyone having to get up and stuff their pasta into the seat pocket. There is so little room it should actually be illegal.

Of course, the people that could change these regulations don't sit in cattle class, and to be honest, the last time he was involuntary put in a middle seat, the councillor next to him smelt of something rotten when he passed him.

Ben, the guy was fucking stinking. If it hadn't been a full flight, I would have asked to change seats. Councillors should be in the back anyhow, not in public. Who paid that flight?

The council paid, and couldn't they have put him in the jump seat? Ben asked.

No, the seat belt was broken.

Is that legal to fly then if it's broken?

I don't know, Ben.

I would have spoken with the pilot.

You would. The pilot never came out as he was flying the plane, muppet.

Shut up.

Even when Cameron was on a three-hour flight, he went to the toilet often. You never know when you can't go. It can happen at any moment.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please fasten your seat belts. The radar is showing turbulence ahead. Please stow your tray table in the upright position.

There is nothing he hated more than needing to pee, strapped in his seat waiting for Captain Speaking to allow him. He disliked control freaks. There's the turbulence, of course, just because he needs to do a number one. Finish your drink, Cameron, before they take it, as it might be a good hour before the trolley dolly comes round.

Later in life, he learned that it didn't matter when you're in first or business class. You just go to the toilet when you want. No one says a word. It's just different when you have money. Half the folks in business class couldn't afford the ticket by the look of them. They're only there via upgrade, anyway.

* * *

The ticket lady looked up from the hypnosis machine.

Ah, sorry about that. It's working again. It's called a reboot. I do that rather than call out the IT guy. He just plays with himself and does the same as me—Jobsworth. It seems fine now. Let me have a look and see if we can get you some good seats. Sometimes the good ones are taken. I like the seats at the back myself.

Her badge said, Hi, I'm Gilian, and I'll be taking care of you. The badges came in from corporate. They had only given her one L instead of two, and she was really pissed off.

"I called them in our English office and told them my name is Gillian with two L's—G-I-L-L-I-A-N."

She was taking it pretty seriously, and why not? It's her name, isn't it? Her identity, for heaven's sake. You can't just change someone's God-given name like that. Ms. Barbie Dahl in the London office wouldn't be caring. They can't spell in London, you know. They're changing the Queen's English all the time. We are proud of our identity up here in Scotland. You can't just change things at will or take our freedom.

Then again, a friend of his mum's was called Margaret, but they called her Babs, or was it Baps or Paps? He'd have to check. She worked at the baker's counter in the supermarket, funny enough.

* * *

The man standing at the next counter was flying Air Anglia to Anglia and was arguing with the ticket clerk about his bag allowance. He was from the country for sure because he had a Glasgow look. He was definitely not a city boy—and that scarf, give us a break. Glasgow Rangers—are you taking the mickey, son?

Was he trying to wind us Aberdonians up at this time in the morning? It was not even 5:21 a.m. Just to clarify, there are many teams in Glasgow, but the most globally known are the Rangers and Celtic. And for our American friends, we are talking soccer.

That's real football with a foot-ball—like, real international football, playing the World Cup because it's a world-class game. It's not like American football, played with a rugby ball. The World Series is played only in America. It