I dress like a pure idiot, but it’s not my fault. I’m a victim of the times.
Big specs that were never fashionable. Dodgy tache. Naff sweatshirt. Donkey jacket-slash-cagoule.
I look like an East German window cleaner from 1985.
Think I need a makeover, a new look, a whole new wardrobe.
There’s a gents’ outfitters on Victoria Road but it’s a school uniform shop. Short trousers, acrylic shirts, white socks. Could be.
Then there’s the second charity hand shops and vintage resaler stores. You know, next to the chemists, the vaping shops, the off licences, the three global supermarket chains.
One charity joint was selling a kilo of clothes for 50p. I popped in, nodded at the guy, passed him the money and he slipped me the bag of gear, no problem.
Got myself a stylish new outfit. Sandals, cardigan, corduroys of colour jobby brown.
Strapped on the unsmiling fringe, that unearned air of superiority, and got my un co-ordinated ass back on to the streets.
Govanhill always welcomes people who look different, sound different, with different cultural norms, so young and earnest me has no probs. Watch me go.
See if I can spot the amazing beardless man.
Maybe pick up some window cleaning jobs while I’m at it.