You know I love you, Govanhill.
Yes, I went to Shawlands. But only the once and only for a coffee. It meant nothing to me.
Yes, I used to live there but now I love you, so I do.
Sick of the sight of you too, though. Your daft face there every morning as I wake up, looking just that bit worse than yesterday.
Bored of you, mate. Seen it all before. And these days there’s nothing else to look at so aye even better, cheers. Nightmare. You’re a nightmare.
No. I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry I said that, please forgive me. You know I pure love you.
But really, neither of us are at our best.
I’m in a state of extensive disrepair. Face collapsed, knees too, other bits needing replaced, recharged, tarted up.
Exhausted and rundown, and everyone I see is the same. An attempted hairstyle and colourful clothes can’t hide the inevitable sense of decline, eh? We’re all falling apart.
But I can still pass for a young man, of course. Therty at most, probably younger. No? What are you laughing at? Cut me some slack, Jack. These are challenging times. Unprecedented, even.
Your four walls don’t look great either, Govanhill.
Boiler leak and room freeze, broken floor to suspect window, cooker dead and chairs unknown. And don’t talk to me about the backcourt.
You could do with a lick of paint, a few nips and tucks, spruce yourself up.
And don’t worry, I’m not going to move to a three-bed new-build with a posh balcony in Langside, or hook up with some wee trampy bedsit in the west end.
You know I can’t live anywhere else.
Don’t know if we need some time apart, a bit of space, get our heads together, find out what we really want.
Me, I fancy a pint.
Talk soon, Govanhill.