My mother grew up in Glasgow. I had never visited, and shortly after her death, as a way of coping, I decided to visit for a few days. Glasgow was much nicer than I imagined, but perhaps the unusually clement March weather helped. Police officers appeared to recogize me. The most unsettling incident happend when I popped into the Centeral Station to buy some snacks in WH Smiths. It was the night of the Poland Scotland football friendly, so thousands of fans were arriving at the station for the match. As I walked in, the Station master (I saw his badge) was with several colleagues. He very much indicated that he recognized me immediately, and said something to his colleagues who all looked over at me as I walked towards WH Smiths. So, I’d just spent the previous weeks watching helplessly as my mother, the most important person in my life, died slowly in hospital in acute pain from cancer. I was visiting Glasgow to process the loss and a way of coping. And it appears the sadistic psychopaths saw fit to point me out to not only police officers in Glasgow, but the Station manager (who is a man named Derek King). The chief of police for Glasgow is Mark Sutherland.

I spent most of the following couple of months in London, aside from the trip to Bath described in a previous post. In London around 70% of the police officers who pass me in their cop cars or pig wagons make a theatrical point of laughing. One driver of a police car who passed me in Brompton Road made a theatrical sad expression at me and then laughed.

At the same time, it appears that the psychopathic perverts intruded upon my private grief by informing security guards, for example at Fulham Broadway, of my mother’s death.