True Grit
I've spent the past four nights in a strange bed, which is slightly more respectable than spending four nights in a stranger's bed. Or in a bed with four strangers, for that matter. On Sunday afternoon I decided to drive from Inverness to Glasgow and, since then, I've been waiting for a gap in the weather so that I could return home. Hotel bedrooms begin to feel like prison cells after a day or two, especially when a strict diet means you can't scoff the little chocolates they leave on your duvet or drain the contents of the mini-bar.
This morning I was all set to make the dash north but Mrs. Z called to tell me that the heavy snow had finally arrived in the Highlands and that the A9 had been closed since two in the morning. There was nothing for it. I went back to my desk at Pacific Quay wearing the same emergency shirt I had worn yesterday. Between meetings I checked on the weather and road conditions. I also scanned the property pages just in case I had to rent a flat for the remainder of the winter.
Then news came through that snow gates were open and that cars were being lead from Aviemore to Inverness in a convoy system. I grabbed my car key and made my escape.
As it turned out, the weather improved throughout the afternoon and by the time I reached Drumochter the gritters had done a fine job with the roads. I even stopped at a lay-by to take a few photographs but scuttled back behind the wheel when another car pulled up behind me and a man got out with a camera telling me that he had the same idea.
Somehow it felt like the start of a Hitchcock movie and I wasn't too keen to find out how it ended.
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