Ewan should not have accepted a lift to Glasgow from The Professor. He had bought a train ticket, had brought a packed lunch – he had been all set. All he had needed to say was ‘No’. Two letters. Instead he nodded his head gratefully to The Professor’s kind offer. Now he’s driving down the ferry’s ramp, ready for the 96 mile (96.2, actually) journey from Mull to Glasgow on Burns Night, sat next to a bagpipe-playing, kilt-wearing, adulterous, foul-mouthed Scot . . . in the snow. Buckle up!