A winter’s night, dark and stormy. At the station, all trains are cancelled, due to high winds.
Scotrail has dug up coaches from somewhere – from their appearance, possibly the 1970s. They offer the only option back home, though, and so I board, along with the other Glasgow-bound passengers.
Once out on the motorway, the storm buffets us. Water has found its way between the layers of window-glass, and run to and fro by my head. More for comfort than hunger, I eat the snack I’d carried to work that morning. Emergency flapjack.
We arrive in Glasgow, but the out-of-town bus driver has to be guided to Queen Street by a passenger. He parks up, and we all get off, relieved to have made it back home.