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woodwork project at school, where it had survived several sabotage attempts by Andy McGrillen, a local bully who had taken a particular interest in persecuting him. Once he’d managed to get it home safely though, there was no stopping Brian Kibby, as everything expanded out from those structures he’d lovingly crafted.
    Now Kibbytown, as he often referred to it, also contained a football stadium, which was constructed around a Subbuteo pitch. The rail track ran past it, reminding the onlooker of Brockville or Starks Park. His latest project was the construction of an ambitious modern stand, which would form a bridgeover the track, with Lansdowne Road Stadium in Dublin as the model. Brian even shed his antipathy to sport, attending several games at Tynecastle and Murrayfield to look at stadium design.
    Keith always seemed anxious when a new phase of construction would begin. He worried that his son might level his papier mâché hills, which he seemed inordinately concerned with, but Brian always built around them. And build the boy did: tenements, tower blocks, bungalows, everything he could think of as his town sprawled across the attic, mirroring the development of the west of Edinburgh where he grew up.
    Now, in the morning rain, standing on the street and looking into the window of Wilson’s Hobbies, Kibby was instantly mesmerised. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but there it was! The sleek maroon-and-black engine gleamed as with eager anticipation he read the gold-and-black emblazoned plaque on the side: CITY OF NOTTINGHAM . It was an R2383 BR Princess Class
City of Nottingham
. It had been out of stock due to high demand, becoming an instant rarity.
    How long have I been after one of them?!
    His heart began to race as he looked at his watch. The shop would be open at nine o’clock, in just five minutes’ time, but he was due to report to a Mr Foy at 9.15 a. m. It was 105 pounds and if he left it there, it would be snapped up before he could get back at lunchtime. Brian Kibby charged across the road to the cashpoint and withdrew his money, all the time shaking with excitement and fear, lest some other model-railway enthusiast sneak in and plunder the coveted artefact.
    Racing back over to the shop, Kibby saw Arthur, the old proprietor, limp into the doorway and turn the keys to open up. He lurched in after him, unable to contain his excitement, having to stop abruptly as the old man suddenly bent down to pick up the morning mail. Taking what to Kibby seemed an agonising time, he gathered the letters and files together, then said sagely, — Aye, Brian son, I think I ken what you’re after.
    Quickly glancing again at his timepiece, Kibby was now concerned that he’d be late. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t make such a bad impression on his first day of work. Getting off on the right foot was important. His dad had always stressed punctuality to the point where it now obsessed Brian Kibby. It was a train driver’s thing, he supposed.
    Old Arthur seemed a bit put out when the young lad left promptly after purchasing the engine, not staying for a chat as was his custom. Young people were always dashing around, he thought in some disappointment as he had long considered Brian Kibby to be different.
    Kibby sprinted across the road, box under his arm. No, he couldn’t be late, he kept saying to himself over and over again in an agitated mantra. He was going to the hospital tonight and he had to be able to look his dad in the eye and tell him that everything had gone well on his first day. The clock at the Tron told him there was a bit of time, and he started to relax a little and get his puff back.
    Outside the City Chambers some major roadworks were taking place. They were always digging up the cobblestones on the Royal Mile, Kibby considered. Then he recognised one of the workmen. It was McGrillen, his old tormentor from school, wearing a sleeveless quilted jacket as he operated a big pneumatic drill, the