Hamilton

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When I arrived in Hamilton I made my way to the giant mausoleum. On the way I heard a woman shouting. She was shouting something along the lines of, 'No, George! George... no! GEORGE... NOOO!' I turned to see a large muscle-bound dog sprinting in my direction, and sprinting so fast that his paws barely hit the ground. This, of course, was worrying. But what made it just a tad more alarming was the fact that the woman who was shouting - the dog owner, one presumes - was dressed in pink pyjamas. In the street. In daylight. If ever there was a moment in life when running away might be prudent, then this was it, but I held my nerve, and the dog brushed by me and bounded back to the pink pyjama lady. Personally, I'm inclined to think that such exuberant dogs should be kept on a lead. I am also inclined to think that anyone dressed in pink pyjamas in broad daylight should be kept on a lead. There is, of course, much more to Hamilton than just a crazy woman and her dog. The town centre feels a bit rough around the edge with many businesses closed down, like the old Vogue and the Hamilton Town Hotel and any number of wee shops lying derelict around a predatory shopping centre. The council has tried to make it more appealing to visitors by sticking bits of sculpture here and there, but they generally look about as appealing as a woman in pink pyjamas. There are good things to see, mainly in the periphery of the centre itself, and the town of Hamilton has a long way to go before its streets become truly welcoming to visitors.