are.â
âYup,â dad said.
âItâs big,â mum said.
âYup.â
âA bit different from Eastbourne,â she said, trying to make light.
âYup,â I wanted to slap the back of his head.
âIâm sure theyâll be lots of record and bookshops, Clem,â mum said.
âYeah, canât wait?â I said, immediately cursing my immaturity. I wanted to slap my own head.
âWell, theyâll be lots more to do, thatâs all Iâm saying.â I loved my mother in that instance. I apologised to her in my head. She hadnât bought into this crap. I knew this wasnât her dream sitting next to her with his hands stuck on the steering wheel. Motionless.
Emotionless.
She smiled, remained positive, kept her own counsel and failed to allow Glasgowâs grey cloud to descend. I needed to be more like her. Stuff all that chip-off-the-old-block shit. It wasnât for me. I was a mummyâs boy. She was the one I felt sorry for. The one I aspired to be like. He could escape and do what he does everydayâ¦make a living. I had school. What did she have? If it wasnât for me, would she have been sitting in this car in the first place? Or, would she have realised the error of her ways and made a quick exit? Did she secretly blame me for her situation?
Driving to our new home, in the south-east of the city, led us through a succession of downcast faces and expressions. There was uniformity about the buildings, solid tenement structures everywhere. The hard buggers of the housing world. The elements didnât mess with these guys. They imposed their will upon the city, dwarfing the street activity below. One of these tenement flats was to be our new home.
Monday
Obviously it wasnât my decision to come up here. As young people weâre just told where and when to go. Slaves to the parents, man. Well, you hear all these stories about Glasgow, donât you? Knives, sectarianism, gangs, violence, Buckfast for breakfast, rain. All that clichéd rubbish. If truth be known, I welcomed the adventure. Anthropology. I figured I wasnât going to be here that long anyway. A year max. Max!
Then back down south, not Eastbourne though. No way. Brighton maybe. Who knows, right? I knew I could stick a year. Iâm not a problem child or anything like that.
The thing that tickled me was the accent. I thought it was brilliant, full of character, sheer energy. It does sound like one big constant argument taking place all over the city though. Iâm still trying to get to grips with it. Iâd say that for one in four people I have met, I havenât a clue what they are saying. I just nod my head to them. The Pakistanis are sound though. Up here they have this cool accent that blends the Glaswegian and Pakistani accent. Vocal melody. Music to the ears around these parts.
It was the noise that was the big difference. It came in all directions swirling through every corridor attacking my ears. It was not a distinguishable noise. Iâd go as far as saying that I hadnât a clue what was being said around me. All the voices blended into this huge imperceptible din. And then, of course, the staring. I had prepared myself for this. The realisation that I was new. The spanking new boy. That dayâs difference. That dayâs talking point. In my paranoia all eyes were on me, shaking me down, checking me out. Girls asking themselves the question: would they or wouldnât they? Guys asking: Who the hell is that? Is he competition? Could I take him in a scrap? The iPod was loaded. Blocking everything out.
I wasnât concerned that I had no friends. I knew that there would be a transition period, but, really, I didnât need any friends. My plan was simple, keep the head down, get the grades and get out. Get to a good Uni. Not unreachable. Iâm not saying I would close myself off to the possibility of meeting new people, but Iâm
âYup,â dad said.
âItâs big,â mum said.
âYup.â
âA bit different from Eastbourne,â she said, trying to make light.
âYup,â I wanted to slap the back of his head.
âIâm sure theyâll be lots of record and bookshops, Clem,â mum said.
âYeah, canât wait?â I said, immediately cursing my immaturity. I wanted to slap my own head.
âWell, theyâll be lots more to do, thatâs all Iâm saying.â I loved my mother in that instance. I apologised to her in my head. She hadnât bought into this crap. I knew this wasnât her dream sitting next to her with his hands stuck on the steering wheel. Motionless.
Emotionless.
She smiled, remained positive, kept her own counsel and failed to allow Glasgowâs grey cloud to descend. I needed to be more like her. Stuff all that chip-off-the-old-block shit. It wasnât for me. I was a mummyâs boy. She was the one I felt sorry for. The one I aspired to be like. He could escape and do what he does everydayâ¦make a living. I had school. What did she have? If it wasnât for me, would she have been sitting in this car in the first place? Or, would she have realised the error of her ways and made a quick exit? Did she secretly blame me for her situation?
Driving to our new home, in the south-east of the city, led us through a succession of downcast faces and expressions. There was uniformity about the buildings, solid tenement structures everywhere. The hard buggers of the housing world. The elements didnât mess with these guys. They imposed their will upon the city, dwarfing the street activity below. One of these tenement flats was to be our new home.
Monday
Obviously it wasnât my decision to come up here. As young people weâre just told where and when to go. Slaves to the parents, man. Well, you hear all these stories about Glasgow, donât you? Knives, sectarianism, gangs, violence, Buckfast for breakfast, rain. All that clichéd rubbish. If truth be known, I welcomed the adventure. Anthropology. I figured I wasnât going to be here that long anyway. A year max. Max!
Then back down south, not Eastbourne though. No way. Brighton maybe. Who knows, right? I knew I could stick a year. Iâm not a problem child or anything like that.
The thing that tickled me was the accent. I thought it was brilliant, full of character, sheer energy. It does sound like one big constant argument taking place all over the city though. Iâm still trying to get to grips with it. Iâd say that for one in four people I have met, I havenât a clue what they are saying. I just nod my head to them. The Pakistanis are sound though. Up here they have this cool accent that blends the Glaswegian and Pakistani accent. Vocal melody. Music to the ears around these parts.
It was the noise that was the big difference. It came in all directions swirling through every corridor attacking my ears. It was not a distinguishable noise. Iâd go as far as saying that I hadnât a clue what was being said around me. All the voices blended into this huge imperceptible din. And then, of course, the staring. I had prepared myself for this. The realisation that I was new. The spanking new boy. That dayâs difference. That dayâs talking point. In my paranoia all eyes were on me, shaking me down, checking me out. Girls asking themselves the question: would they or wouldnât they? Guys asking: Who the hell is that? Is he competition? Could I take him in a scrap? The iPod was loaded. Blocking everything out.
I wasnât concerned that I had no friends. I knew that there would be a transition period, but, really, I didnât need any friends. My plan was simple, keep the head down, get the grades and get out. Get to a good Uni. Not unreachable. Iâm not saying I would close myself off to the possibility of meeting new people, but Iâm
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