I saw you in the Greggs on Gorgie Road one day. It’s not the type of place I’d align with your brand, but we all have cravings… Mine? For a time, it was chicken tandoori baguettes— think coronation chicken, minus the raisins. Something about those cheap white baguettes A crispy chewy stale, not quite aligned with my gut But if it’s what the body wants who am I to deny? *** I remember that odd day— Concerned the world was ending— Scotrail ticket machines defunct, Glasgow’s underground stalled. Yet in Greggs, on an Oatlands industrial estate— the card machine beeps as I tap! I find myself exhaling with relief.
*** I smelt you Rising from slumber, in the mornings thick fat in the air, stripped floorboards on Great Junction Street. Bacon— for the morning rolls. It was a temporary home an escape on the corner— feminist art theory piled on shelves, U.S. Girls tacked on the fridge, my Brussels sprout stalks crowning the cabinet. I remember A coming over And being intrigued by the book selection; curiosity, aroused. Anyway, the smell—bacon— lingers, mingling anticipation with death. A reminder of how I watched everything on Netflix; swallowing the hours— entire seasons of The L Word Just to numb my brain. V said if you enjoyed that, you should watch Transparent But it wasn’t really about that! A said if you liked Making a Murderer, you should watch The Staircase. I self-soothed with violence… the waft of fat subsiding My sister came over I roasted Jerusalem artichokes... Anticipation lingered and lapsed Eventually, my sister flew home *** I didn’t have the same needs after my Mum died. Petty complexities— now meant nothing. Became too much. They say it puts everything Into perspe... Oh, shit! My phone died… The Greggs is no longer there… Things change And grief shifts.
