The older we got, the smaller it seemed. Stirling. Like the school uniform we’d outgrown but couldn’t throw away. Not just yet.
Too young for the pub, too old for the park. We crammed into bedrooms, conservatories and garages. Sardines on a single bed, passing round a bottle of Glen’s and flicking from Kerrang to Scuzz to Dave and back again.
Nothing to do and nowhere to go.
But that changed with the pink plastic cards.
The boys were the first to pass their tests. Not because they were better, just because they were older. But correcting them wasn’t worth walking when the third-hand Kas, Puntos and Saxos started to appear. Courtesy of the divorced dads and the gran who wanted you to have your inheritance now, so she’d be here to see you enjoy it. And get a lift to the chemist on a Sunday.
It was freedom for the price of petrol. The road was ours. We could venture anywhere we wanted, any time we wanted. Four wheels and a one-way ticket to independence.
A way out.
We clambered into back seats, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to ribs. Kids in adult bodies, smallest in the middle. Are you sitting on my seatbelt? Windows down, radio on, "where are we going" on everyone’s lips.
The keys turned, igniting our excitement. Loch Lomond? St Andrews? Falkirk retail? The possibilities were endless. The possibilities were ours. We voyaged through the schemes, past cul de sacs and castles, monuments and McDonalds. Our hometown faded in the rear-view mirror, the world laid out before us. We cheered as our driver provided safe passage across council lines, our destination within reach.
Eventually, our adventures would take us to Amsterdam, Prague, Brussels and beyond, but in that moment, The Big Asda in Alloa was as good a place as any.