We live in the city, an inner city, hundreds, thousands of us sitting on top of one another in tall buildings.
Tenement life, all colour and noise and constantly moving.
Tracey, daft bastard, arguing with her neighbours every day before she tried to torch her flat that time.
Or those two Romanian women in my street, screaming at each other up and down the pavement.
I’d love to mind my own business pal, but you won’t let me.
Can’t breathe, can’t concentrate, too many people, leave me alone.
But where else can you get Chinese food at 4am? Or visit the theatre, the opera, museums and galleries, concert halls, restaurants, nightclubs and cinemas, as we all do.
Sometimes the noise is reassuring. The sound of the traffic, an argument next door. It means I’m at home, means I belong.
The pubs where they know your name, if you’re going to the game at the weekend, or watching it in here, or round a mate’s house instead because at least there you can see what’s happening, can’t you, concentrate on the match without the jostling and the drunks.
Or the corner shop, where you pop in for milk or fresh rolls, and if it’s late in the day and they’re no longer so fresh then he’ll give you them for free because who’s going to buy yesterday’s rolls tomorrow?
So don’t worry, we know who you are, you have nothing to prove.
Usual please cheers Govanhill.