Monday, 19 November 2012

Shelter From The Storm

Govan is drenched in a battleship grey deluge that's lasted all night and on through the morning. Huddled below brollies, we slosh through puddles, deep and wide, as liquid bullets rattle down on us.
The Govan X centre is warm and dry, busy with shoppers picking up bargains from Home Bargains, The King of Bargains, and the Bargain Centre. You wouldn't think poor folk shop here, would you?

Ar the store with the lifesize decal of a polis on the door, an elderly gentleman shuffles in. He is wearing an aged gabardine raincoat and a bunnet, his black laceup shoes are squelching out water and his trouser turnups are soaked and wrapped around his ankles.
No sooner has he lifted a basket than the store manager is deftly at his side. He gently takes him by the elbow and begins to manoeuvre him around towards the entrance again.
The man looks at him, bewildered.
"Come on, come on," says the manager gently, "Ye know, don't ye? Ye know ye're no allowed in. We've been through a' this. 'Mon, out ye go."
"Ah, but," the old fella says, lifting his arm as though to shake the young man off.
The manager takes hold of his other arm too and swings him about turn, then hands on his sloping shoulders, he guides him back from whence he came.
"Ahm only wantin a coupla wee things," says the old man again.
"Ah know, Ah know, Ah cannae let ye," and he smiles a long-suffering smile.
"Ah'll no lift anythin', Ah'll pay for it."
"Aye, aye," says the manager, nodding and ushering him back through the entrance.

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