A Gran day out
(Looking out of Tivoli café: Glasgow, Scotland)
I see my Gran each week in Glasgow, or thereabouts; sometimes it is less, sometimes more than seven days. She is the subject of a little guilt each time I leave Glasgow to stay elsewhere – when I was away in China for over four months last year, I believe her estimation of me faltered somewhat as I am the only family member she usually sees on a regular basis. At almost ninety one years old and having never lived out of the East End of Glasgow, I think it’s inconceivable to her that I would spend my life moving about between countries in such a gloriously blasé and inconsiderate manner. Anyway, I like meeting her often, I think she enjoyed my company particularly over this winter as the snowy weather prevented her leaving her flat for weeks on end. Travel was virtually impossible and as she trips and falls several times each year without the situation being compounded by snow, I was more content to come to her, bringing food parcels as if she would be trapped alone forever.
On this occasion, I met her in the Trongate area of Glasgow where I caught her berating a secretary at the housing association. “It’s a scandal!” she was saying, “Terrible. I’d aye pay fer somewan tae come dae mah stairs! I’d pay! They’re a scandal, they stairs, so they are.”* The lady behind the desk didn’t bother to look up over her glasses, gave a heavy, saturated sigh and proceeded to repeat that there was nothing she could do without the consent of the other residents. I am convinced that next time my Gran is in the area, they will perform the same conversational dance, leaving both parties feeling hassled and irritable. Without realising it, Gran has the capacity to be either confusingly infuriating to these people, or to me, invariably amusing – the earnestness she bestows on each transaction is as maddening for them as it is funny to me.
Occasionally my Gran scores a victory against the council or association with her letters of complaint or constant telephone calls. However after this failure, we trundled around the corner for a cup of tea in a nearby café. I had never been in this one before, but it appeared to be the special brand of Italian Glasgow family establishment that rolls ice cream parlour, fish and chip shop and tearoom into the one room. You can see it must be vaguely popular with those of advanced age, judging from the lady seated near the window. The interior is tired, not having been drastically updated since the 1950s (formica tabletops and padded vinyl chairs abound) yet it remains endearing. We settled to cups of tea and a plate of chips to share which despite being relatively cheap was enormous. We didn’t manage to finish, much to my Gran’s disappointment. My Gran can’t go too far without a cup of tea and some sustenance; she just seems to shut down. It must be hereditary. She began to cough a little, telling me “I nivver take the cold, you know, it’s been years – oh, I hope I dinnae smit ye.”** The entire family hears the same phrase each year or other year when she has a cough or cold. It’s true that she’s rarely ill, but she’s not immune to forgetting that she gets an annual cold like the rest of us.
* Translation: “I’d pay for someone to come and wash my communal stairwell (of the flats). The fact they’re so dirty is scandalous.”
** Translation: “I never get a cold, it’s been years since I did. I hope I don’t infect you.”
– Today Rosie is spending the day with her sister in Glasgow, Scotland –
