It’s me and you Govanhill, like it or not.
Stuck with each other like a pair of cranky old buzzards arguing over a dead mouse.
We’re too much alike, and too different for words, but there’s nothing else to talk about, so what can I say.
We is all there is.
Wonder what it’s like in other places. Open space, ocean views, tumbleweed? Dysfunctional homes, hidden violence, addiction? Aye, here too.
But at least Govanhill is a weird moveable feast, like a train station concourse spread over a few square miles.
Everyone’s leaving or everyone’s arriving or halfway between the two.
This overworked, undersized constant crowd of limbs and masks and bikes and prams and fireworks being let off in the street, ffs.
Lorry drivers, dog walkers, shelf stackers. Trans activists, trade unionists, migrant workers. And those young minds who entitle themselves and whose main entitle is themselves.
What a main road we have too.
Charismatic wee Romanian deli, new Italian bistro, hardware store with floors and aisles invisible from outside.
Silversmiths, tattooists, Asian outfitters, organic grocery and community food bank.
Primary schools, building sites, pubs sometimes open but mostly closed, and right at the top is the best one of Glasgow’s ninety three parks, dear green place and that.
The supermarket chains, the global fast-food brands that gie ye the dry boak.
Great institutions like the library and the swimming pool yet to reopen.
The start-ups, closed downs and gone for evers.
Miles and miles automatic, recent rain now rising.
Dry afternoons and wet evenings becoming drier, wetter too.
So it’s me and you Govanhill, like it or not, in it together, together as one.
Not walking on air, soaring over the rooftops or flying through the heavens but down here, swimming on the pavement.
It’s our nature, and everything has to be true to its nature.