Oh, hello, I didn’t notice you standing there. Come in. I was just musing that this elegant flat – or should I call it an “apartment”? – is someone’s forever home. But first, I must have a chat to the wee yins on the footpath below.
The best way to get through to those two laddies is to offer some friendly counsel. For instance: “Come near here again, yer little shites, and I’ll empty a piss pot on yer.”
A few minutes ago I’d caught one of them writing in chalk on the wall. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d written “Buy a lifestyle" or “Your private escape”. Instead the shorter bugger – the basin haircutted one who seems to wearing somebody else’s big ears – had written: ‘Condemned’.”
In fact, he’d scrawled “Kondemed.” But I’m a real estate agent not a schoolteacher, so a quick threat of fasherie will have to suffice.
It’s a high pressure job, this property selling gig in the Gorbals. My beat is the stretch along the south bank of the Clyde, up to the Broomielaw Bridge. There used to be a rather nice leper hospital on the Gorbals side of the bridge until leprosy became unfashionable. Now it’s a Pizza Express. I just hope they wiped down the benchtops before starting the new business.
On the bright side, having a fast-food joint in the area shows the Gorbals is moving upmarket.
A few years ago, getting soggy fish and chips and razor slash on your cheek was the locals’ idea of a great night out. Now you have a choice of tucking into a traditional Lowland dish such as chicken tikka masala while wearing a Peaky Blinders-style cap.
The houses have changed too. When I first started in this business, only posh homes had a toilet. In other flats, you prised opened a window and peed into the street. The constant rain meant it was difficult to tell what was coming from Heaven and what was courtesy of the MacTavish family.
Most residences now have loos, many of which flush. In fact, this flat has some outstanding features including a working lavatory (to be confirmed).
Let me show you around. Step through this doorway. Don’t worry. I can see from your expression you think because the door knob came off in my hand moments before the hinges gave way, there may be some quality issues.
This building went up more than 200 years ago. You don’t get workmanship like that anymore. None of your nailguns, plastic-framed windows and plasterboard used here, thank you. Each stout nail was hammered home by a craftsman. The wood is oak. Or it could be beech. Whatever. This great land’s fleets were created from this very type of timber. People just like you sailed off to build an Empire on floorboards like these. What? Alright, point taken, the English did most of the sailing but the Scots could well have been involved in a wee tottie of Empire creation.
Duck your head! That’s what I call quaint. These low lintels just scream history. You want something to stop the bleeding? Just press a handkerchief to your forehead, we won’t be long now.
That noise? It could be the Scottish pipes. Turn on the kitchen tap and the plumbing plays “Bonnie Dundee”. You’ll have to forgive me, we real estate agents are renowned for our sense of humour.
Yes, yes, I can hear it too. Hold on a moment, I see the problem. Could you turn your back? Just bear with me while I shoot the cat.
Don’t go all RSPCA on me. It was a clean kill – AND you’ll notice the neighbours didn’t bang on the walls or call the polis.
True. Possibly they’re used to the sound of gunfire.
Anyway, back to the black cat. Lord knows how it got trapped up the chimney.
Guidbye.
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Copyright 2025 GREG FLYNN
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