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the world, and it’s a one-sided swedge. It’s really so fucking easy  . . . Fuck them all. I admire your rampant individualishm, Shimon. I shee parallelsh wish myshelf ash a young man. Glad you shed that Sean. Others have made shimilar comments.
    Ugh . . . a spotty fucker in a Hearts scarf . . . yes, the cunts are at home today. Look at him; the ultimate anti-style statement. Ah’d rather see ma sister in a brothel than ma brother in a Hearts scarf n that’s fuckin true . . . ay oop, another strapping lass ahead . . . backpacker, good tan . . . mmmm . . . suck, fuck, suck, fuck  . . . we all fall down . . .
    . . . where to go . . . work up a sweat in the multigym at the club, they’ve got a sauna and a sunbed now . . . get the muscles toned up . . . the smack heebie-jeebies are now just an unpleasant memory. The Chinky chickies, Marianne, Andrea, Ali . . . which lucky ride will ah stick it intae the night? Who’s the best fuck? Why me, of course. I might even find something at the club. The dynamics are magic. Three groups; women, straight guys and gay guys. The gay guys are cruising the straight guys who are club bouncer types with huge biceps and beer guts. The straight guys are cruising the women, who are into the lithe, fit buftie boys. No bashturd actually getsh what they want. Exshept ush, eh Sean? Preshishly Shimon.
    I hope ah don’t see the buftie that cruised us the last time ah wis in. He told me in the cafeteria that he had HIV, but things were cool, it was no death sentence, he’d never felt better. What kind of a cunt tells a stranger that? It’s probably bullshit.
    Sleazy fuckin queen . . . that reminds us, ah must buy some flunkies . . . but there’s no way you can get HIV in Edinburgh through shagging a lassie. They say that wee Goagsie got it that way, but I reckon that he’s been daein a bit ay mainlining or shit-stabbing on the Q.T. If ye dinnae get it through shootin up wi the likes ay Renton, Spud, Swanney n Seeker, it’s obviously no got your name on it . . . still . . . why tempt fate . . . but why not . . . at least ah know that ah’m still here, still alive, because as long as there’s an opportunity tae get off wi a woman and her purse, and that’s it, that is it, ah’ve found fuck all else, ZERO, tae fill this big, BLACK HOLE like a clenched fist in the centre ay my fucking chest . . .
    Growing Up In Public
    Despite the unmistakable resentment she could feel from her mother, Nina could not fathom what she had done wrong. The signals were confusing. First it was: Keep out of the way; then: Don’t just stand there. A group of relatives had formed a human wall around her Auntie Alice. Nina could not actually see Alice from where she was sitting, but the fussing coos coming from across the room told her that her aunt was in there somewhere.
    Her mother caught her eye. She was staring over at Nina, looking like one of the heads on a hydra. Over the there-there’s and the he-was-a-good-man’s Nina saw her mother mouth the word: Tea.
    She tried to ignore the signal, but her mother hissed insistently, aiming her words across the room at Nina, like a fine jet: — Make more tea.
    Nina threw her copy of the NME onto the floor. She hauled herself out of the armchair and moved over to a large dining table, picking up a tray, on which sat a teapot and an almost empty jug of milk.
    Through in the kitchen, she studied her face in the mirror, focusing on a spot above her top lip. Her black hair, cut in a sloping wedge, looked greasy, although she had just washed it the night before. She rubbed her stomach, feeling bloated with fluid retention. Her period was due. It was a bummer.
    Nina could not be a part of this strange festival of grief. The whole thing seemed uncool. The act of casual indifference she displayed at her Uncle Andy’s death was only partly feigned. He had been her favourite relative when she was a wee lassie, and he