Despite all the chaos, there’s a weird dignity to Buchanan Bus Station. It’s pure Glasgow: no-nonsense, slightly aggressive, but ultimately gets you where you need to go.
It’s the place where you meet your friend for a trip to the Highlands. It’s where you wave goodbye to your mum, who’s clutching a carrier bag full of tablet and a scowl.
So next time you’re stuck there, absorbing the acoustic assault of hissing brakes and chatter, take a deep breath. You are in a concrete time capsule. It’s a mess, but it’s our mess. And the 900 to Edinburgh is, finally, at bay 12. Probably.
