"Nice jaiket," croaks a weel kent voice. We glance round, "Oxfam special?"
Ma da nods, "Lookin' dapper yerself, Mr M. Ye'll be getting down to yer last million."
"Aye, D., yer right, got t'look efter yersel'. Ye never know when Death's gaunae take ye," and he shakes his head woefully, "Aaw, aaw, aaw. An' would ye take a look at this place. Think they're diggin' for ile. Don't know how mony bodies have fell doon they pits on the Govan Road noo."
And Mr M. goes on to complain about the new Southern General and the road re-directings and the road re-layings that have been underway for months now.
Never one for gloom, ma da shrugs it off with a laugh, but Mr M. calls him to attention with a solemn "Here! Ah wis at J.D.'s funeral a week past. Wisnae gaunae go, but Ah did."
He shifts his feet, and folds his arms across his double breasted suit jacket, purple silk tie with narrow stripe.
"It's who yer gaunae see therr," he whines in a pained tone, holding ma da in a sombre glare."That's the trouble wi funerals, therr's some o' them at it ye'd rather see in the boax."
Ma da gives a wry smile, "Ach."
"An it wis in the Chaipel." he goes on with further shaking of his head, and with a sideways glance and the flicker of a grin, the octogenarian chortles darkly, "Three times roon wi the boax they wur. Been better jist chergin an entrance fee an be done wi it."