Family
"My brother is in the Prince’s Trust. He’s only 24 but he’s been in it since he was 17. Not much at first, just a few hours here and there every few weeks, but now he’s met Prince Charles – twice. I’m dead chuffed for him, cus before he started there he was going off the rails. Not a lot, you know, but there’s 5 of us and we’re all a lot older than he is so you know he’s just acting out. But he’s not any more, not since he got the job and met the prince twice. And y’know good on him, I’m proud of him. He’s done well for himself. But yeah he’s the youngest of 5. I’ve got 8 kids myself, 4 of my own and 4 of my partner’s. My stepdaughter, she’s got into drama college and I’m dead proud, she’s really good. Yeah, my mum was one of 11. But we’re all in the same area so you only go like two doors down and there’s family, y’know?
Aye, you meet some interesting folk working here at the hostel.."
This story was told to me at 1am by the night manager at the hostel. I brought him a chocolate bar to keep him company and we got chatting about families. In the morning he was gone, replaced by day shift and I didn't get to thank him for the story.
"My brother is in the Prince’s Trust. He’s only 24 but he’s been in it since he was 17. Not much at first, just a few hours here and there every few weeks, but now he’s met Prince Charles – twice. I’m dead chuffed for him, cus before he started there he was going off the rails. Not a lot, you know, but there’s 5 of us and we’re all a lot older than he is so you know he’s just acting out. But he’s not any more, not since he got the job and met the prince twice. And y’know good on him, I’m proud of him. He’s done well for himself. But yeah he’s the youngest of 5. I’ve got 8 kids myself, 4 of my own and 4 of my partner’s. My stepdaughter, she’s got into drama college and I’m dead proud, she’s really good. Yeah, my mum was one of 11. But we’re all in the same area so you only go like two doors down and there’s family, y’know?
Aye, you meet some interesting folk working here at the hostel.."
This story was told to me at 1am by the night manager at the hostel. I brought him a chocolate bar to keep him company and we got chatting about families. In the morning he was gone, replaced by day shift and I didn't get to thank him for the story.
Windae-Hangers
"There used tae be.. oh, what're they called.. Windae-Hangers. So you'd hae a street of houses an a' the hoosewives would stick their ropes across the street an hae the washing hanging oot on the ropes. Then they'd a' hang oot the windae an chat, an they could see whit's happenin on the street; y'know, if someone wis hitting their wife an they'd gan look efter the kids so she could look after hersel, y'know, an if a kid wis drawing on the road wi' chalk or something they'd gie him a blethering, y'know "ah ken yer ma works at the post office" an that. I mind my grandpa telling me about this yin pub an the landlord hated him an a' his pals so they went roon' early yin mairning - like 4 o'clock early - an cemented his back door shut, an then when the pub opened about 11 o'clock - it wis quick drying cement - my grandpa ran intae the pub yellin ''Fire!" or something, an they were a' clamouring at the back door! But that's how it wis then."
I met a very dear friend of mine, who'd been my drama mum at uni, and we gossiped and blethered for the best part of 8 hours. We talked animatedly about the EUReferendum and then turned to bygone days of running through the kingdoms of our childhood. She told me this story of her grandparents.
"There used tae be.. oh, what're they called.. Windae-Hangers. So you'd hae a street of houses an a' the hoosewives would stick their ropes across the street an hae the washing hanging oot on the ropes. Then they'd a' hang oot the windae an chat, an they could see whit's happenin on the street; y'know, if someone wis hitting their wife an they'd gan look efter the kids so she could look after hersel, y'know, an if a kid wis drawing on the road wi' chalk or something they'd gie him a blethering, y'know "ah ken yer ma works at the post office" an that. I mind my grandpa telling me about this yin pub an the landlord hated him an a' his pals so they went roon' early yin mairning - like 4 o'clock early - an cemented his back door shut, an then when the pub opened about 11 o'clock - it wis quick drying cement - my grandpa ran intae the pub yellin ''Fire!" or something, an they were a' clamouring at the back door! But that's how it wis then."
I met a very dear friend of mine, who'd been my drama mum at uni, and we gossiped and blethered for the best part of 8 hours. We talked animatedly about the EUReferendum and then turned to bygone days of running through the kingdoms of our childhood. She told me this story of her grandparents.
Dreadlocks
She served me a drink, and looked quizzical as I outlined my request for a story. Like everyone does, she demurred - saying she had no stories to tell, that she couldn't think of any. I asked her "what's the story of that?" and pointed at her crop of dark dreadlocked hair, half shorn and distinctive. "This?" she said, touched her hand to her head self-consciously. "Well..."
And she told me of how she'd been going through some stuff lately, and one night last week she'd taken her hair and just started cutting it off. She wouldn't have stopped, she said, but her flatmate - her best friend - came in and told her to, saying she would regret it. And he was right, but it was freeing, she said. Physically - that much hair weighs a lot - and emotionally.
Her hair, she explained to me, was her reminder. Of past experiences, of friends and loved ones, woven into her dreadlocks like a living memory. Cutting some away had been cathartic, but having the dreads had changed her outlook on life and she wanted to keep what remained. Mixed in with her hair, she said, was strands from old friends, threads of cloth from people she'd met and loved; her hair was her memories. If she had kids - and her eyes lit up animatedly - they would have dreadlocks at least once in their life, to show them how they can make you think about yourself.
As I paid for my drinks, I asked for some scissors, then cut off a tassle from my scarf. I gave it to her and asked if she would add it to the threads dangling from her dreadlocks. That way, the strange hitchhiking story-gatherer would maybe be a part of her tapestry of memories, just as she is now a part of mine.
This was a bartender at The 13th Note, a bar that my friend and I ended up at. Many ciders and more than a few rum-and-cokes in, and I wanted another story. She was a unique soul and I hopr
She served me a drink, and looked quizzical as I outlined my request for a story. Like everyone does, she demurred - saying she had no stories to tell, that she couldn't think of any. I asked her "what's the story of that?" and pointed at her crop of dark dreadlocked hair, half shorn and distinctive. "This?" she said, touched her hand to her head self-consciously. "Well..."
And she told me of how she'd been going through some stuff lately, and one night last week she'd taken her hair and just started cutting it off. She wouldn't have stopped, she said, but her flatmate - her best friend - came in and told her to, saying she would regret it. And he was right, but it was freeing, she said. Physically - that much hair weighs a lot - and emotionally.
Her hair, she explained to me, was her reminder. Of past experiences, of friends and loved ones, woven into her dreadlocks like a living memory. Cutting some away had been cathartic, but having the dreads had changed her outlook on life and she wanted to keep what remained. Mixed in with her hair, she said, was strands from old friends, threads of cloth from people she'd met and loved; her hair was her memories. If she had kids - and her eyes lit up animatedly - they would have dreadlocks at least once in their life, to show them how they can make you think about yourself.
As I paid for my drinks, I asked for some scissors, then cut off a tassle from my scarf. I gave it to her and asked if she would add it to the threads dangling from her dreadlocks. That way, the strange hitchhiking story-gatherer would maybe be a part of her tapestry of memories, just as she is now a part of mine.
This was a bartender at The 13th Note, a bar that my friend and I ended up at. Many ciders and more than a few rum-and-cokes in, and I wanted another story. She was a unique soul and I hopr
These are some of the stories I heard in Glasgow today - from a hostel staff member, a wonderful and much-missed friend, and a barmaid with fantastic hair. I hope you enjoy their stories.