WILLIAM ANDREWS

Hotels, forgetful chapels mostly.  Dispassionately functional, (which is fine of course,) but make a man lonely – far away, listless.   This recent one, the Accor in Glasgow, French, and much like you would imagine in the large part, though the room had a separate toilet cubicle.  A wee “wee” cupboard; slate grey walls, hover pan, hidden cistern. A single down light positioned so it perfectly illuminated your lap when you sat on the can. My lack lustre nob, spot lit, like a nervous debutant chanteuse. The glowing junk of an increasingly doughy man evacuating in a windowless cupboard miles away from his wife and home.  Glum.