“Ahm needin’ the toilet, da!”
“Yer ma’s huvin’ a bath, son, you’ll jist huv tae wait.”
But I was in desperate need as my strange, contorted posture
indicated. I’d be mibbe twelve at this time and we were living 18-up in the
high flats right in the very south-west corner of Glasgow, nearly in
Renfrewshire. When the winds blew hard the building swayed with it to the
extent that the ‘big light’ on the ceiling danced like a 1920s flapper. I wasn’t
having a good time at my new school and was rather a worry to my parents.
My da gave in.
“Look, son. Ye better jist do yer business in the kitchen
sink, but don’t tell yer ma.”
And so, I did.
My auld man looked more astonished than dismayed or angry. Was
his son suffering some sort of mental malfunction? Was he a bigger eejit than
anyone had even thought? Was he in fact in need of some sort of medical or
psychological help?
The evidence lay in solid form on the surface of the new,
modern stainless-steel sink.
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