That artisan bakery over there used to be a pub, an old man’s pub, but no one ever called it a community resource.
There was a wee café nearby selling square slice and mugs of tea, but we didn’t know it was a magical safe space where like-minded people could gather, share tables, break bread.
Now Rab fae Torrisdale Street is calling himself an entrepreneur because he sells weed from his close.
Says he provides a vital lifeline for those looking for a sense of place and ownership.
I said okay, two grammes but it’s not for me and he said it never is, is it?
I’m joking, of course. It was ten grammes. Two is never enough.
That was also a joke, obviously. I am a responsible lifestyle blogger after all, and would never advocate taking drugs.
I know the dangers. Got high one night and quickly ended up in a shooting gallery then a crack house with junkies and dopers and dealers injecting crystal meth and ketamine into my eyeballs and my toes, before going to rehab and then recovery.
It made me late for work the next morning so I’ve learned my lesson, I know the pitfalls. It’s a downward spiral.
My mum always told me to just say no to drugs, keep saying no, and she was right. I did get them cheaper.
That too was a joke, someone else’s joke. Sorry about that. I just don’t know what words mean any more nor whose they are.
It’s a confusing time for everyone.
I see a bottle shop and I think of jakeys queuing outside an off sales at seven in the morning.
I see a bar and kitchen and think room and kitchen, alcove where granny sleeps, outside toilet.
It’s a coalmine out there. Sorry, coalfield. No, minefield, that’s it. Yes. It’s like a coalminefield out there.
Then I asked Rab if he sold avocadoes and he said naw, that’s the Mexican drug cartels.
Cheerio, Hovangill.
Cheers, Govanhill 