Sell Me a Coat
identity unknown
Burlap sack.
Cauld.
All I can remember is the cauld and the intense itching of the course fabric on my skin. I cannae remember who I was or who am ur anymore. It doesnae matter. Nobody gives a shite about me. Invisible people gotta do what invisible people have to. It doesn't matter anyways. From where I'm sitting, I can see the good bits and the bad bits of such a shite situation.
Here I am, sitting in a doorway with a cardboard mattress under my arse and a sack blanket over my knees. I feel right lousy tae. It's pishing fae high heavens and I can feel the drips going doon my back. It's giving me the shivers and I've had the same sodding cauld for the last month or two. So, cough cough drip drip cough drip cough drip. It's nae wonder that I can't fucking sleep.
Sometimes, when it's like this, I try to remember the time before I became like this; when I lived in a house with windows and a gas cooker and a bed and a wee burd in a brass cage. But honestly? I mighta dreamt it. I mighta dreamt the beekeeping society, my Mum's strange wee hats she wore to Mass, the horse brasses and the floral wallpaper. I mighta made up my Faither's greying gub, Christmas turkey, learning Rabbie Burns poems and memorising the times of the Underground trains.
Who fucking knows.
Maybe Sandra McIntosh is just a character affa the telly. Maybe. I don't know. She mighta been a lassie I knew in the Sally Ann Homeless shelter and I remember her life as my ain because...why? It's mair interesting? I know that a lassie who goes fae lower middle class to third class citizen - an interestin' story, no? Maybe. I don't know. I never did work for the Beeb.
Spare change pal? Ay?
Naw, gaun away and work!
Ah, no fucking worth it.
Sip burp watery eyed. I want tae sing.
FUCK I WANT TO FUCKING SING!
I only want to sing cause of the drink. It makes the situation a bit mair bearable and makes sleeping a bit easier. It's kinda hard to sleep when you might get humped or some bloke pishing or whiteying all over you.
Best thing would be gettin' arrested though. Warmth! Bed! A meal in the morning! Fuck the Ritz, Clydebank jail is the fuckin berries.
Better than this shitey doorway.
Fuck fuck fuck bastards.
I'm human tae. I'm human!
I like watching the folk go by, it's an interestin hobby. Cheap to. Got to pass the time between giros and getting pished, you know? But doing that makes me somewhat of a statistic.
I really hope it's 42%.
I like that statistic.
Ay, you got any spare change? I need a coat, man.
Goooooonnaee buhbuhbhuhgger aff?!
Piss off.
Fuckin neds. I can't stand the wee shits. Don't know they're born.
Maybe my name isnae Sandra. It's the one I use when I get lifted. Not that the polis care. One less tramp aff the streets makes it mair Twenty-fucking-Fourteen ready. They'll be fittin gas showers in the fuckin cells soon enough. Mark my fucking words. Cannae trust nane of them.
I want a coat. A nice bonnie coat like that lassie has over there. Dae yi see it?
If I had a coat like that, aw nice and woolly and smart looking with shiny buttons, maybe I could sober up, get a nice wee job and a wee flat. I don't care where. With a garden. So I could people watchin with the roses and elderberry bushes and shite.
Maybe I'm just a materialistic arsehole, right, but I want that coat. That coat could solve all my problems.
Just call me Joseph. Josephine, maybe. I dunno.
New coat, new name, new everythin.
Maybe with a coat like that, I can trade in this cloak of invisibility...
Spare change?
Nothing. No even a glance.
Ignorant cunt.
Cauld.
All I can remember is the cauld and the intense itching of the course fabric on my skin. I cannae remember who I was or who am ur anymore. It doesnae matter. Nobody gives a shite about me. Invisible people gotta do what invisible people have to. It doesn't matter anyways. From where I'm sitting, I can see the good bits and the bad bits of such a shite situation.
Here I am, sitting in a doorway with a cardboard mattress under my arse and a sack blanket over my knees. I feel right lousy tae. It's pishing fae high heavens and I can feel the drips going doon my back. It's giving me the shivers and I've had the same sodding cauld for the last month or two. So, cough cough drip drip cough drip cough drip. It's nae wonder that I can't fucking sleep.
Sometimes, when it's like this, I try to remember the time before I became like this; when I lived in a house with windows and a gas cooker and a bed and a wee burd in a brass cage. But honestly? I mighta dreamt it. I mighta dreamt the beekeeping society, my Mum's strange wee hats she wore to Mass, the horse brasses and the floral wallpaper. I mighta made up my Faither's greying gub, Christmas turkey, learning Rabbie Burns poems and memorising the times of the Underground trains.
Who fucking knows.
Maybe Sandra McIntosh is just a character affa the telly. Maybe. I don't know. She mighta been a lassie I knew in the Sally Ann Homeless shelter and I remember her life as my ain because...why? It's mair interesting? I know that a lassie who goes fae lower middle class to third class citizen - an interestin' story, no? Maybe. I don't know. I never did work for the Beeb.
Spare change pal? Ay?
Naw, gaun away and work!
Ah, no fucking worth it.
Sip burp watery eyed. I want tae sing.
FUCK I WANT TO FUCKING SING!
I only want to sing cause of the drink. It makes the situation a bit mair bearable and makes sleeping a bit easier. It's kinda hard to sleep when you might get humped or some bloke pishing or whiteying all over you.
Best thing would be gettin' arrested though. Warmth! Bed! A meal in the morning! Fuck the Ritz, Clydebank jail is the fuckin berries.
Better than this shitey doorway.
Fuck fuck fuck bastards.
I'm human tae. I'm human!
I like watching the folk go by, it's an interestin hobby. Cheap to. Got to pass the time between giros and getting pished, you know? But doing that makes me somewhat of a statistic.
I really hope it's 42%.
I like that statistic.
Ay, you got any spare change? I need a coat, man.
Goooooonnaee buhbuhbhuhgger aff?!
Piss off.
Fuckin neds. I can't stand the wee shits. Don't know they're born.
Maybe my name isnae Sandra. It's the one I use when I get lifted. Not that the polis care. One less tramp aff the streets makes it mair Twenty-fucking-Fourteen ready. They'll be fittin gas showers in the fuckin cells soon enough. Mark my fucking words. Cannae trust nane of them.
I want a coat. A nice bonnie coat like that lassie has over there. Dae yi see it?
If I had a coat like that, aw nice and woolly and smart looking with shiny buttons, maybe I could sober up, get a nice wee job and a wee flat. I don't care where. With a garden. So I could people watchin with the roses and elderberry bushes and shite.
Maybe I'm just a materialistic arsehole, right, but I want that coat. That coat could solve all my problems.
Just call me Joseph. Josephine, maybe. I dunno.
New coat, new name, new everythin.
Maybe with a coat like that, I can trade in this cloak of invisibility...
Spare change?
Nothing. No even a glance.
Ignorant cunt.