Last night I dreamt I went to Glenrothes again. I have always disliked Glenrothes. It is not in the infinity of confusing roundabouts that take you from one side of the town to the other without ever arriving anywhere that my animosity lies, and don’t even think of venturing off the main roads into one of the estates, you could be there for days, endlessly circulating. No. It is the memory of the Glenrothes Chess Congress 1992 that chills my blood. On a Sunday afternoon, round five of the tournament, during a particularly stressful period at work, which will resume the next day, I find myself sitting down, with a score of nought out of four, opposite the only other player in the room who is yet to win a game. I am exhausted and depressed by my poor form. The very last thing I feel like doing is playing another game. When I think of Glenrothes, which doesn't happen very often, I remember that feeling.