I had read, in some travel scrap or other, that despite its appearance, the street name is actually pronounced ‘sickle’. This seemed perfect to me: beyond how pleasingly a Glaswegian accent would render the word, there was the dissonance between its spelling—phonetically suggesting an extra syllable—and the compressed noise it represented, which was a snap to produce once you were let in on the secret; and there was the fact that it formed a neat homophone with the English word Sickle. This association lent the name an undercurrent of danger, befitting the street’s reputation for late-night rowdiness (not to mention its recent history of being partly on fire); and symbolically it evoked labour, which even post de-industrialisation felt appropriate. I carried this insider tidbit with me the entire time I was in Glasgow, smugly believing I was one of the few outsiders in the know. Each day, after I had crossed onto the street from the motorway, I would relish the sound of the two syllables in my head, forming redundant thoughts simply so I could employ the word. Here I am on Sickle. Once more on Sickle. Look, I’m leaning against a wall on Sickle. Of course, as it turned out, I had been misinformed. Sauchiehall Street is not Sickle Street. Sauchiehall Street is Sauchiehall Street. There is some disagreement among locals, but the correct pronunciation is either ‘saw-kee-hall’ or ‘suh-kee-hall’, with an aspirated k—meaning it’s actually pretty close to being phonetic. Still—the title scans better if you pronounce it ‘sickle’.
I was leaning against a wall on Sauchiehall, the daylight fading into gloom, pedestrians and traffic streaming before me, when I was yanked from my reverie by an interfering world. ‘Reverie’ is perhaps misstating things a tad; I was really at something of a loose end. I had a vague plan to catch a gig at Nice N Sleazy, the dreadfully named bar I was then standing beside, but it wasn’t due to commence for a couple more hours and I had run out of itinerary. In the end, I opted to—well, I opted to lean against a wall on Sauchiehall Street. The interfering world came in the form of a woman with long dark hair and bright lipstick, carrying a shopping bag. She was a little older than I was, perhaps in her late 30s or early 40s, and she wore jeans and a smart beige coat.
“Excuse me,” she repeated. “I need to…”
I apologised and shifted to the side; I had been blocking the keypad of an apartment building. The speaker, I gathered, was returning home with groceries.
“It’s really OK,” she said, amused by the earnestness of my manner. She moved forward and began punching in a code. Then she paused.
“Do you want to come up?”
“Hm?”
“Do you want to come upstairs?”
I blinked, unsure how to process this surprise query.
“W-what for?” I eventually managed.
“I don’t know.”
I was not reassured by this answer.
“Your face is red,” she observed, helpfully. “You’re shy?”
“Yep.”
She laughed.
“So do you want to come up?”
“Uh, no, I’m OK, thanks.”
“All right, then.”
The woman disappeared inside the building and I resumed my leaning.
The exchange replayed itself in my thoughts, recurring like a stuck record. I wondered if I had done the right thing—if I had acted appropriately. Surely it was only sensible, given the limited information available to me, to have heeded my internal warnings and declined the offer. Who knows what terrible fate might have befallen me had I acquiesced? I could have been the target of a scam, some sinister operation where hapless men are enticed into secluded areas before being divested of their valuables by thick-set goons-in-waiting. I probably looked like an easy mark, too: alone, diminutive, foreign. And why stop at robbery? Who’s to say I would not have been chloroformed the moment I set foot in the apartment, that I would not have been crammed inside a large sports bag, transported to a meat locker and coaxed back to consciousness in order to witness my own (protracted) disembowelling? Admittedly these were remote possibilities, but the solo traveller is wise to exercise caution. If I’m being honest, I did consider a more plausible scenario: that I had been propositioned by a streetwalker. After all, what had I done, exactly, that would conceivably induce a complete stranger into inviting me up to their place? I had obscured a keypad. I had moved out of the way. I had said sorry. And there had been no special effect in my utterance of that one word. If anything, it had been poorly enunciated. A seasoned broadcaster may have been able to inject those two syllables with charisma and charm, but a seasoned broadcaster I am not. Or was it offensive to assume there had been some ulterior motive? Was it insulting, sexist, narrow-minded to believe this woman was not just acting on the agency of her own whims? I was hardly in the milieu of the sex worker. I was on a busy street in central Glasgow and it was 6pm. They are supposed to be ladies of the night, not ladies of the late afternoon.
Let’s assume, for the sake of another paragraph, that there had been no ulterior motive and this person had asked me up to her apartment because she desired some form of company—or, more credibly, sensed that I desired some form of company. What would have happened if I had followed her up those stairs? As I leaned against that cold Sauchiehall wall I imagined something far worse than being solicited or robbed—something more terrifying, even, than being murdered in a meat locker. I could picture every detail. She would unlock the door of her apartment and I would follow her in, tentatively, trailing a few paces behind. She would place her groceries on the counter and her keys in a bowl, and I would find an awkward location in which to stand. Then she would say “I’m back”. I’d freeze; there would be someone else there—a roommate, a friend, a partner. It wouldn’t matter who it was. The only thing that would matter would be the fact that the woman who had just brought me into her apartment would have to explain my presence to a third party. And I could not conceive of any explanation that would not be mortifying, that would not cause this person to look on me with utter disgust. You mean you just asked a random guy on the street to come upstairs and he said Yes? And this is him? This… thing blushing in the corner?
And if there hadn’t been anyone else there? If it had just been me and her? What then? I might be straining credibility by saying this, but to the extent that I was tempted by the proposal, it was not out of any carnal consideration. Which is not to say I didn’t find the woman attractive, or that I’m inclined towards asexuality. Rather, it’s that my ideal outcome would have been the formation of a friendship—even one that lasted all of an evening. What I wanted was a long, unexpected, wide-ranging conversation with a new friend, on a memorable night out in Glasgow. Had I let my nagging doubts scare me away from the very thing I was seeking in my travels? Not to evoke mediocre Jim Carrey vehicles, or the mediocre books upon which they are based, but I am so inept at meeting people, and so desirous of new experiences, that I had resolved, in the days leading up to my departure from Melbourne, to go along with anything; to break out of my comfort zone; to do things I would otherwise avoid. I would obey the call to adventure. Even if it meant something terrible happening. Maybe especially if it meant something terrible happening. And adventure had come calling. Adventure had come calling while I was leaning against a wall on Sauchiehall Street, wishing that something exciting would happen. And what had I said to adventure? Uh, no, I’m OK, thanks. What a fool I had been!
“Sure you don’t want to come up?”
The woman with long dark hair had re-emerged from the entrance.
“Uh…” I started.
I took a breath.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”