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hud adopted the Ginger Bastard, whae wis ma nephew, eftir his faither, ma kid brar, died in Afghanistan n his ma became a drug addict. Banged aboot half a dozen ay thum aw weys, even goat one intae the scud flicks, before the bairns goat aulder n started gabbin, n then every cunt cottoned oan tae the scam. Loast a bit ay interest in the wee cunts eftir that, if the truth be telt.
    So ah’ve goat the laddies in the cafe n we’re havin a juice before gaun tae a matinee in the cinema; thaire’s naewhaire else worth takin bairns when it’s this cauld. Now the Ginger Bastard’s lookin up at ays wi they eyes ay his. — You don’t love me as much as you love Guillaume.
    Jesus fuck! What does the wee cunt expect? Has eh taken a fuckin deek at ehs hair in the mirror lately? — One question fir ye, pal, seein as you seem tae ken everything. What is love?
    The Ginger Bastard’s bottom lip goes ower the toap yin. — It’s like . . . I dunno . . .
    — Youse ur brothers, well, half-brothers, and youse might love each other. But in a different wey tae, say, how a man loves a woman, right?
    — Yes, baith nod at once, n thank fuck. That’s a relief. No wantin a buftie son, especially the wee rid yin; cunt’s gaunny git it tight enough through bein a ginger bastard!
    — Well, it’s like you two are different, n ah love yis baith the same, but in different weys, ay. Ah leave thum tae think aboot that. It’s jist a shame thit, wi the Ginger Bastard, it’s in a he’s-fuckin-well-no-wi-me sortay wey! Anyweys, ah took them tae see that
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film. Ya cunt, ah wis nearly fuckin greetin when the auld bastard wis talkin aboot ehs deid wife n how they wanted bairns n couldnae huv thum! Ah felt like telling um, shoutin at the screen: take these two wee fuckers, cause ah’m no wantin thum! Popcorn, hoat dogs, ice cream, Twixes, the fuckin lot, the greedy wee cunts!
    So ah’m fuckin relieved tae dump thum oaf, but it wisnae a bad day oot. Wee Guillaume first at Niddrie Mains. As he heads intae the hoose, wi a wee nod fae his ma, Suzanne, ah looks at the Ginger Bastard n goes, — Think yirsel lucky yir in Blackford Hills. Ye widnae last two minutes doon here.
    — Why are Guillaume and his mum so poor?
    What kin ye say tae that? Ah jist ask the Ginger Bastard what he thinks, and he sits trying tae work it oot oan the wey back tae Blackford Hills. — Is it because his mummy isn’t so educated?
    — It’s probably got something tae dae wi that. But then you’ve goat tae ask: how is it she’s no as educated as your ma?
    The wee gadge steps oot the car wi a furrowed brow. Ah watches um head up the driveway ay the big hoose, the gravel crunchin under ehs nice black shoes.
    Then, headin back intae toon through Oxgangs, ah strikes gold. A lassie’s standin by the bus stoap outside Goodie’s pub. She looks like she’s hud a few n she flags me doon. As ah stoaps, she waves ays away. — Ye wantin in or no?
    — Ah’m gaun tae Stockbridge but ah’ve nae money till ah meet ma mate thaire but, ay.
    — Awright, ah smiles, — hop in. We kin work something oot if yir game, likes.
    She focuses oan ays. — Maybe we can.
    Game as fuck, n nae playin the innocent when ah stoaps the motor doon this wee lane in Marchmont ah use: one ay ma top spots.
    — Are ye no gaunny switch off the meter? she asks as ah open the back door.
    — Aw, right, auld habits die hard, ah goes, scramblin tae the front. — Gled ye reminded ays, cause this might take some time!

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OFFICE WORK
    AYE SUR, AH’M a lucky man! Lucky isnae the word, naw sur, naw it isnae. Wee Jonty MacKay, luckiest man in the world! Ah am that, sur, aye, ah ah’m that! Ah’ve goat this cosy wee flat in Gorgie, muh wee Jinty, ma Internet oan ma computer, a DVD wi fullums, n that Fullum Station Fower oan the telly. As well as aw that, ah git a bit ay work now n then at the paintin. Aye, sur, the paintin.
    If ah could change anything at aw it wid be tae git even mair work at the paintin,