Tuesday, 18 March 2014

Sharp As A Two Edged Sword

Pat catches us up on the Govan Road.
"No bad the day."
I nod and we keep walking.
"Yesterday, I was like, yes! Gets on the shirt, nae jaiket, doon the sterrs, oot n right back in again tae get ma coat oan."
I laugh, "Too right. Cannot trust sun at this time of year."

Years ago, Pat had two ornamental sabres which he kept stored in the attic above his top storey flat. When he moved to his current house, he forgot to take them. He went back the next day and asked the new tenant for access to get a coupla things he forgot.
"Aw mate, that stuff," says the resident of Pat's old house, "Didnae know whose that wuz. Just flung it in the Clyde," and he sweeps his arm over the direction of the river. 
Pat stares at him, a steady stare.
"Thought it wiz junk," says the guy, with a long steady stare back.
"Wind would cut ye like a sabre," muses Pat.
"You're never gonnae forget that, are ye," says I as we hurry along.

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