Not so much a culture shock, as a culture shift. Small town Ayrshire already feels prissy, dull, but also well ordered, with everything in its place. Tenement life here is fine, the flats aren't well sound-proofed but the neighbours have been pretty civilized over the holiday. It breaks down at the communal bins, where some bastard thought it would be fine to dump their bin bags on the drying green, from where it's nobody's job to move them.
On working days, even at 6am, you can hear the M8 as a non-stop single breath. There are lots of things we expected, and which we have: the ten minute bus ride to George Square, the restaurants round the corner, being able to get The Guardian. There are other things, unexpectedly pleasing: being able to look east from the sitting room, across the all weather football pitch, and see the blue lights of police cars flashing along Cumbernauld Road: and beyond that the Hovis bakery with its windsock, and artics coming and going 24/7; and overhead the flights descending over Glasgow to the airport at Paisley, losing their anonymity when you look online and see that it's the 10pm KLM flight from Amsterdam, half an hour late.