Toilet Wisdom

There are two kinds of drunken girls in toilets.

One is the weeper, generally crying about some sort of relationship stress (although it’s not always that, of course). She is an immutable fact of any night out. It doesn’t matter if she’s with you or if you’ve never seen her in your life, because as soon as you see the running mascara and hear that familiar hiccough of ‘what did I do to deserve this?’ you are immediately there by her side, knee deep in empathy.

This is because the second type of drunk girls in toilets are the wisest and kindest people in all the world.

“If he isn’t treating you like the PRINCESS you are,” my first toilet mentor told me through a haze of Jack Daniels and Jaegermeister, “he isn’t worth it.”

The fact she was wearing a tutu and sitting in the sink didn’t seem strange, and neither did my total lack of inhibition at telling a complete stranger about the problems in my love life. I tearfully agreed with her that I was a princess and my boyfriend was a fool as he was apparently blind to this clear and incontrovertible fact.

The other side of the coin - much as I hate to admit it - is that I was pissed and emotional, and perhaps not behaving entirely fairly towards him.

The position of toilet soothsayer is one of great power, and with great power comes the opportunity to live vicariously through others, and to give them advice based on approximately no knowledge of their situation.

“Get rid of him/her!” Toilet Girl decrees, “look at the state of you [ she means the tears and snot of abject misery rather than the inebriation ] , and where is this person that claims to be your one true love? Not here, faithfully by your side, but out there, in Da Club, blissfully unaware of your unhappiness - or worse, dismissing it as time of the month, or too much gin! Up with this you must not put!”

The trouble is, alcohol consumption throws up all sorts of underlying madness and robs you of the ability to discuss it sensibly with your partner, whilst simultaneously encouraging you to shout wildly about it in public places. Toilet wisdom does not consider such extenuating circumstances. Someone should conduct research into the number of couples that call it a day after garbled conversations between apparent kindred spirits in grotty nightclub loos.

Because I don’t spend a lot of time hanging round the men’s loos, I’m unsure if there’s a male equivalent of this fairy godmother lurking round the urinals. In my experience drunken men don’t cry as much as drunken women, so maybe they don’t need one. Or maybe their toilet guy says exactly the same thing as our toilet girl.

The last time Captain Tact came in from a booze soaked evening, he informed me I have eyes like sprouts (“with mould in the middle for the pupil”), which I understood from the delivery was meant to be complimentary. Perhaps there was a bloke in the sink saying, “for goodness sake treat her like the princess she is! Get home and deliver some vegetable-based compliments before it’s too late!”

It was a nice sentiment, however oddly phrased – and ultimately that’s what the average Toilet Mentor is trying to achieve too. She wants you to feel better about yourself and if that means ditching the person you’re with, so be it.

However, it may be worth remembering that sometimes, the person sitting in the sink of a nightclub toilet is just as addled as you.

Twitter

Today I want to talk to you about Twitter; or more specifically, hashtags (#).

On Twitter, hashtags help people who are all tweeting about the same thing to find other tweets about the same thing.

So, if you're watching something on TV and also tweeting about it (which is the main function of the site if you’re a comedian or arts journalist) you can put a hashtag at the end of your message, which then automatically becomes a link. Click on said link, and it takes you to a list of all the other tweets on the subject.

When loads of people are using the same hashtag to talk about something it becomes a trending topic, which means Twitter features it on the right hand side of the page. This can wind up being a funny mix of things, because people use the hashtag in a variety of ways.

- One way is to break or gather news stories. Today STV Edinburgh started the #whyedinburghrocks tag so they could put together a list of reasons using Storify.

- It can also be used to ask questions – the BBC are quite good at this, and often tell listeners or viewers a hashtag to use at the start of a programme so you can discuss it online. Similarly, this weekend I am doing an online Q&A with The Edinburgh Reporter about 12 books, where people can submit a question via Twitter using the tag #askaligeorge.

- You can also use hashtags to connect with other people of similar interests. When I tweet about the 12 books project I quite often use the #amwriting tag so other writers know it's a post that might be interesting for them. Similarly anyone attending the West Port Book Festival in Edinburgh over the next four days can use the hashtag #wpbf11 to find out what events are going on and what other punters will be at them.

- Another popular use is to play games (a recent favourite of mine was #hiphopgroceries - Will.I.Ham, for instance. Twitter is full of people who are overly fond of punning.)

- And some people use it to share advice. For example, at lunchtime today, one of the top trends was #arealboyfriend – aimed at facilitating discussion as to the best way a boyfriend can behave towards his partner. Some of these made me laugh a lot, although I fear that was not necessarily the intent.

I made a list of my highlights, anyway.

#arealboyfriend chase after you when you walk away
- That could be a boyfriend, or it could be a total stranger with mugging in mind. Just saying, boyfriends aren't the only people that give chase.

#arealboyfriend doesn't annoy you and make you cry.
- Duh, yes he does. If he never annoys you then you either don’t care/notice what he does, or you’re a robot, or you’re deluding yourself. A good boyfriend likely doesn’t do these things on purpose, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do them at all.

#ARealBoyfriend sees the pain in your eyes, while everyone else believes the smile on your face.
- This was from a man whose profile said he respecks females. I think he may be trying too hard. That or I have no soul.

#arealboyfriend kisses you on the forehead.
- So does your mum.

#arealboyfriend will give up his hoes !
- And other gardening equipment, the bastard.

#ARealBoyfriend will finger u ont bus
- LOL. How inappropriate.

#arealboyfriend plays an important role in the ecosystem as a pollinator, with larva considered problematic to vegetation in agriculture.
- Science wins again.

Do You Take This Pie...

Those of you who use Facebook will probably be aware of its obsession with targetted advertising, which surely only has limited success. Basically all girls I know are so used to being told about various wedding services (tick tock ladies, if you don't marry soon it might never happen and then where'll you be?) that it doesn't really bother them anymore.

Today, though, FB caught my attention by insisting I have a look at Rubenesque Bridal, "Scotland's only dedicated bridal boutique for the curvaceous woman."

How does it know I'm a size 16+? (Which I'm not, of course, I'm like size... zero. Ahem.)

And, why did it decide as soon as I graduated from university that I'd be desperate to get married ASAP? For a supposedly modern means of communication it takes a very 1950s approach to gender roles.

Actually in fairness, that one might be because I've been 'engaged' to one of my mates on there for about five years, and the bots can't tell the difference between real and fake relationships. Yet. But still, when, where and if I tie the knot is not going to be determined by social networking.

There again, the other thing they keep throwing at me is a free screening of Trainspotting at the Royal Scottish Academy, so maybe they do know me quite well after all. *starts sketching centrepieces*

For other items written by me today, see here for chat about the poetical genius of Sisqo, and here for a mild response to an hysterical article about the British government's gay agenda. I've also conducted a couple of interviews for the Edinburgh Reporter which I am in the process of writing up, and tonight I'll do some more Caligula for 12 Books in 12 Months. Productive.

Chapter Eight

A fortnight had passed since the fire.

Bracken was staying in a grotty hostel up town until she could get somewhere else to live, but because she no longer had any dependants she seemed to have been pushed quite far down the list. This was annoying, but was not her primary grievance.

The morning after the fire, Bracken’s aunt had been found sound asleep on her own couch. She had apparently been evacuated by the bomb disposal people and just gone home, without stopping to think about the baby or her brother in law.

To add insult to injury, she was unable to recall any of the events after Bracken and Nigella had left for their night out. She was deeply apologetic, but no idea where Nicky or the baby were. Bracken, furious, assumed she had been so pissed she forgot all about them. As such, she the two had had a series of blazing rows, and now they weren’t talking to one another.

Her aunt maintained she had not been that pissed, but she couldn't explain what had happened to leave a black hole in her memory where a grown man and a child should have been. She was so worried about the potential for early onset alzheimers that it seemed easier to feud with her niece than to face the problem head on, and of course she felt terribly guilty, which makes people get quite defensive.

Nigella had sided with her mum out of a vague sense of family loyalty, so she too had stopped talking to Bracken. Bracken blustered that was fine by her because at least she didn't have to watch Nige throw herself at Jimmy Bob at every available opportunity, but when she was alone it was one of the things she cried about.

Never being one to read between the lines, Nige believed that Bracken was being very unreasonable expecting her to choose between her mum and her cousin. Her response to this was straightforward, with deviant tendencies. You see reader; Nigella was the only person other than themselves who knew that Aloysius and Esmeralda were not really a couple. She had witnessed a heated argument between them in the car on the night of the fire, when Bracken was investigating and they thought she was out for the count. As a result, she had decided that the best revenge for angry words (and of course her wronged mother) would be to take a crack at the beloved Al. And because Esmerelda was still hanging around like a bad smell, bracken would never know until it was too late.

In addition, the recording of Jeremy Kyle loomed large in Bracken's consciousness. She wondered if she'd get any sympathy for the vanished baby. Probably not. He'd say it was her own fault for going out and leaving him. But at least her aunt might get denounced as unfit to look after kids on national telly.

"Have you found anything yet," she said into the phone.

The police had launched a missing persons search for Nicky and the baby, and Bracken had been phoning for updates several times a day, sometimes going in to the station and waiting round for hours till someone took pity and talked to her for a bit.

As far as she could gather, they were looking with the assumption that Uncle Nicky had gone a bit brain wrong and taken off with his young nephew, for some as yet unknown end. Bracken didn't think that was it, but had been told that hunches didn't mean anything unless you were a fully trained police officer.

"It's not a hunch," she had said, "I know Nicky. He's not the kidnapping type."

"Well," the attending officer willfully misunderstood, "maybe your son went with him willingly, but if it was without your permission we have to treat it as kidnapping."

"Went with him willingly? He's sixteen months old!"

"They're often easily led at that age. You need to be teaching stranger danger from birth, in my view."

"But it's his uncle you're saying he's with! He looks after him every day!"

"Gosh," said the officer, who was actually an undercover actor doing research for a bit part in River City, "it's actually the perfect crime, isn't it?"

"Anyway," Bracken continued abrasively, "Nicky doesn’t have any money, and he’s feart of his ain shaow. Where would he go?"

"Oh I dunno," the police-actor replied airily, "there's all kinds of jolly free things to do in Edinburgh during the day. Maybe they've gone to the Museum of Childhood, or the Brass Rubbing Centre, or the National Gallery. Or maybe they're playing 'I spy' on the meadows. Or they could be at one of the libraries for Rhymetime."

Bracken balked at the mention of the library. She hadn't been back in since the fire. It wouldn’t be the same without the buggy as a kind of shield. And she didn't think she could cope with seeing Al all loved up, as he no doubt was.

"You're a muppet," she said to the police-actor, "they've been gone for two weeks, I doubt they're just wandering round various Edinburgh tourist attractions. Do you not think someone would have seen them?"

"Hm. I see what you mean."

There was a pause.

"Maybe they went to Glasgow. There's all animals and stuff at the Kelvingrove museum. Kids love that sort of thing."

"Right," said Bracken, "well if you get on to investigating that and let me know how you do. What was your name again?"

"Officer Moriarty," said the police-actor, with pride. He had spent ages trying to come up with a good fake name.

"Riiiiiight," Bracken said, wondering whether maybe she had dialled the wrong number.

She wrote down the name so she could ask not to speak to him next time she called.

“Good luck thwarting Sherlock Holmes,” she said, and hung up.

At the other end of the phone, the police-actor felt foolish.

“So that’s where I’ve heard that name before,” he said to no-one in particular. “And he’s not even one of the good guys.”

“Y’know, Jimmy Bob,” said the officer at the next desk, “there’s this thing called the internet, which might help you out with some of your research. Shall I show it to you?”

“I know how to do the internet,” Jimmy Bob said, “I’ll have you know I’ve got 807 facebook friends.”

“Is that so,” his companion remarked dryly. “The middle of a crowd is one of the loneliest places to be.”

“How does that work?”

“Ach, forget it.”

Bracken left the payphone and stared up at the sky.

It was overcast, and looked like rain. But then it always did these days. It was as though the weather was making an effort to reflect her mood, she thought sometimes. There would be something offensive about waking up to glorious sunshine.

A flock of geese honked over in their V-formation. She hadn’t seen them do that over the centre of town before. Maybe they were lost. Or opting for a city break instead of flying south…

‘I’m spending too much time on my own,’ she thought, ‘I nearly laughed at that.’ She shoved her hands into her pockets and began the four-mile trudge from the hostel to work. She did have change for the bus, but walking it was one way to fill in the time now that she had nobody to talk to look after.

As she walked, she watched the crowds with an intensity that made anyone who caught her eye give her a wide berth. Every time she saw a man with a small child, she stared at them extra hard to check… but it was never Nicky, and by extension never the wean. She couldn’t decide whether she liked the way her heart jumped whenever it looked like this time, it might actually be them… it was sort of like getting butterflies, and that had to be better than feeling nothing at all.

The rain came on with an onomatopoeic sound of your choosing, and she pulled up her hood around her ears. Her mood, like the last couple of chapters, was decidedly mopey.

Just ahead of her a car pulled in to the side of the road, and she grimaced unattractively when she recognized it as the one Esmeralda had given her a lift in just a couple of weeks previously. It seemed like it had been months.

“Bracken,” Esmeralda called as she leaned over to wind down the passenger window, “can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“Nah, that’s OK,” she said, “I’ll be mega early if you do that, so…”

“Well that’s better than getting drenched surely? Come on, we can sit in the library whilst we’re waiting for your shift to start. I’m sure I can persuade Al to give us some coffee…”

Her brain melted a little at the mention of his name. She wondered what he was wearing today. Something from Marks and Spencer, maybe.

“How is Al doing,” she asked, her voice a picture of concern.

“Oh, he’s a little bit up and down, as you might expect,” Esmeralda said vaguely. “Come on, get in the car and I’ll tell you more.”

As she suspected, this promise of information about Aloysius sealed the deal, and Bracken reluctantly opened the car door.

“So,” said Esmeralda, “any word on your uncle and your little boy?”

“Nothing,” Bracken said miserably, “and I think the polis who are working on the case might be retarded.”

“Oh dear,” Esmeralda replied in a tone that sounded 96% like real sympathy and almost completely masked the note of amusement underneath, “that’s no good at all. What makes you say that?”

“Well I don’t mean actually retarded, like special needs,” she qualified, “I just mean like a bit dozy.”

“I’m sure they’ll come good in the end,” Esmeralda said, although she had good reason to believe that this was not the case.

“I hope so. Anyway, you were saying about Al?”

“Well, he’s a bit moody,” Esmeralda said, “more so than usual I mean. But he’s settled in well at his job, and started running the rhyme sessions with the mummies and the lickle babies.”

“Aw,” said Bracken wistfully, “there’s nice.”

“Yes, he’s very good,” she gushed, “he plays harmonica and ukulele so he gets a bit of live music in there.”

“Sounds good,” Bracken said. “The wean likes harmonica. Always gurgles away tae ‘eeself when we’re up town and he hears a tramp playing one to get money for methylated spirits.”

“Lovely.”

“I miss him.”

“I know you do, sweetie. But maybe its not such a bad thing.”

“Come again?”

“Well, think about it. This is a chance for you to start again, be who you always wanted to be, before motherhood got in the way. You didn’t plan to get pregnant when you did, did you?”

“Well no, I guess not.”

“So maybe this is the opportunity to do what you did plan on doing. What did you want to be when you were seventeen?”

“A bus driver.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They ran a campaign to get more drivers and they said they paid them 26k a year and I thought, ‘that’ll dae.’ I’d drive a bus for that money, wouldn’t you?”

Esmeralda thought of the small private fortune she had amassed over the past few years through nefarious wheelings and dealings.

“Yeah,” she said, “wow, I didn’t know they made so much cash!”

“Mmm,” Bracken continued, “but I kind of went off the idea after a while. Sitting down all the time, you probably get piles and stuff like that.”

“Oh yeah,” Esmeralda agreed, “I hadn’t thought of that.” Which was true, she hadn’t.

They turned down the road where the library and school sat next to one another, listening to the rain drumming on the car roof.

“Bracken, I’ll level with you,” Esmeralda said as she pulled into the library car park, “there’s a reason why I was asking you those probing questions about your future ambitions from the past.”

She suppressed a groan.

“Really, Esmeralda? What’s that?”

An almighty clap of thunder drowned out the other woman’s answer, and they high-tailed it into the building before the rain took out one of their eyes.

Once inside, the looks on the faces of Adric and Aloysius put it out of her mind.

“What’s the matter with you two,” she asked, “except for the obvious of course – sorry to be insensitive at this difficult time.”

Aloysius smiled sadly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“The matter,” boomed Adric, who lost all sense of volume control in times of stress, “is everything and a half.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replied, this time in a quarter of a whisper, which is the most dramatic level it’s possible to whisper at, “that they are closing the library.”

Chapter Seven

“I’m not taking her in my cab,” the driver said flatly. “The smell lingers for days, and I’ve just had it cleaned.”

“Please,” Bracken pleaded, “I don’t know how else to get her home.”

“Get her cleaned up and try another firm, maybe,” she was told. “But I wouldnae hold my breath if I were you. Unless it was to stop myself from smelling the sick, in which case, fire on.”

“Thanks,” Bracken said, “I think.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” someone said, and Bracken suppressed a groan as she recognized the dulcet tones of the Good Samaritan.

“As I mentioned earlier, I gave my boyfriend a lift here. Do you two live far away? Maybe I could drive you?”

“It’s only a couple of miles,” Bracken said, “but I don’t want to put you out. And she might be sick in your car.”

“I’m sure she won’t be,” the Samaritan said brightly. “She can’t have very much left, probably.”

“I can just wait till she sobers up a bit and then we can walk,” Bracken said, “it’ll be a good lesson for her in not taking me out to that stupit club.”

The Good Samaritan laughed effervescently.

“Really, it’s OK. I think a little drive would do my boyfriend some good. He’s finding this place a bit oppressive.”

Bracken’s cheeks flushed. A ride in what was no doubt a fancy car, with a guy she fancied and his impossibly attractive and generous girlfriend. And her blootered, sick covered cousin. What a treat.

“Honestly, it’s OK Miss – what is your name, actually?”

“Oh how rude. Esmeralda Francesca MacGregor Di Saatchi Von Rollo.”

She smiled at Bracken’s awed expression.

“It’s an old European name, cobbled together out of lots of bits of families.”

“It’s very nice,” Bracken said. “I’m-”

“Bracken Lee McCracken. I know.”

“But how? Have we met? You do look familiar, somehow, but I thought maybe I’d seen you on television or something…”

“So full of questions, little one,” Esmeralda said in a deeply patronizing manner. “All in good time.”

“Bleurgh,” Nigella said quietly to herself, but no bodily fluids escaped.

“See,” Esmeralda said triumphantly, “she’s sounding better already.”

Bracken looked doubtful.

“Al, tell her won’t you,” Esmeralda said as the stud himself emerged from the hospital.

“Tell who? What?”

“Tell Bracken here that it’s not bother for us to give her a lift.”

Aloysius was bewildered.

“Hello, Miss McCracken,” he managed eventually, “how are you?”

“Oh braw aye,” she said with the automatic sarcasm of the woman scorned, “I love hingin about hospitals in the middle of the night cuz ma idiot cousin got herself attacked and then the nurse gave her medicine withoot considerin’ how it might react wi alcohol.”

It was only then that she remembered his own reasons for being there.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, “it’s been a long night. How’s your mother doing?”

He looked pained. Something in Bracken’s chest plate echoed the sentiment.

“She’s not so good,” he said stiffly. “Well, she’s dead, in fact. Which is about as bad as you can get, I think.”

“Oh my god,” Bracken said, instinctively putting an arm around his shoulders, “I’m so sorry.”

Almost as swiftly as she’d made contact she pulled away to catch Nige’s wheelchair as it slowly rolled away.

“I still think a wee late night drive is what is needed here,” Esmeralda piped up through narrowed eyes. She had seen the look on Aloysius’s face as Bracken tried to comfort him, and she was shaken by it.

“Let us take you and your girlfriend home, Bracken.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my cousin,” Bracken said, forgetting that Esmeralda had previously alluded to the fact that she already knew this, and therefore not realizing that she was rattled.

“Well, we’re more like pals really. Or sisters, maybe. Anyway, Nigella McCracken, this is Esmeralda Francesca MacGregor Di Saatchi Von Rollo, and… what is your name, library assistant guy?”

“Aloysius Anthony Bertrand Hunkington-Smythe III,” he replied, “but you can call me Al.”

“Oh,” Esmeralda said, “you work in the library too?”

“No, I’m a lollipop lady,” Bracken explained, “but I go in there every day.”

“You must be an avid reader.”

“I am,” she said, “and I’m also just really enthusiastic about trying new books.”

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow.

“That was a joke,” Bracken explained, “because obviously avid means eager, dedicated to or enthusiastic about something.”

Esmeralda laughed unenthusiastically.

“Very good,” she said. “You must have had them rolling in the aisles at lollipop college.”

“Well I tried, but with hindsight that was probably a bad idea. Most of our training involved standing in busy roads, so you don’t want to have people on the floor laughing really. And what is it you do, Esmeralda?”

“Oh, I’m a jack of all trades,” she said evasively.

“But mostly scientific and psychological research for private clients on a freelance basis.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It pays the bills.”

“I want a sangwich,” Nigella interjected loudly.

“Right,” Esmeralda decided, “time to get this one home I think.”

They bundled into the car, Bracken taking a moment to fold up the broken wheelchair and lean it against a wheelie bin.

“Are we going to the party,” Nigella asked woozily as Bracked strapped her in.

“No sweetheart,” she said soothingly, “we’re going to go and have a wee sleep. We’ve been to the party already.”

“Was I the prettiest?” Nigella asked hopefully.

“Yes you were, you were the prettiest girl in the whole room. All of the boys there made up their minds to marry you, but you wouldn’t have any of them.”

“Your knees are green,” Nigella informed her. “A really bright, vibrant green. And mine are purple.”

“OK then pal,” Bracken said, patting her hand supportively.

“That’s not usual, is it?” Nigella seemed worried. “Maybe we should go to the doctor?”

“We’ll make an appointment tomorrow hen, OK? The doctor’s in bed just now.”

“OK Bracken,” she said, yawning.

“Alright back there?” Esmeralda asked, barely concealing her disinterest.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Next left is it?”

“No, second left, where the trees are. Thank you.”

They were driving slowly down one of several roads that appeared identical to Esmeralda. How people ever found their way home whilst under the influence was a mystery. She thought of her own city flat, and the family pad in the country, and the villa in Greece. Those were buildings with character, and class. These ones looked like toy houses.

“Hoi Bracken,” Nigella said, with a giggle in her throat, “who’s that man in the front? He looks like that guy you fancy-“

“-shut it, Nige,” Bracken cut in quickly, but her cousin continued,

“the posh one fae the libray that offended you the other day.”

Aloysius turned around.

“Sorry pal,” Nigella said, “but you do really look like him.”

“I think I am him,” Aloysius said pleasantly. “And it was only today, believe it or not. A lot has happened since then. But listen, Bracken, I want to apologize. I honestly never meant to upset you.”

“What,” Bracken said, not really listening.

This was primarily because she was staring over his shoulder at the place where her block of flats ought to be.

It was still there, or at least part of it was. But the rest of the building was decidedly engulfed by thick orange flames and black swirls of acrid smoke.

“Is that where you stay,” asked Esmeralda.

“Aye,” Bracken said, “or it was…”

“Ooh, pretty,” observed Nigella, “is it bonfire night?”

“Nah mate.”

“So who’s having the random barbeque?”

“Think it might be your maw and Uncle Nicky, actually hen.”

Her voice cracked a little.

“Does that mean we can go?”

“Eh,” Bracken said, bravely fighting the rising urge to be sick, “no sure. I’ll go and find out what’s going on, if you just stay here in the warm for two minutes OK?”

“Ooh, wi the hunky libray guy eh,” Nigella said, attempting a saucy wink in Aloysius’s direction. “Sounds awright.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Aloysius asked Bracken, “For moral support?”

Of course she did, with every fibre of her being, but for some reason said, “Oh no, that’s fine. But thanks though, Al.”

‘Why did I say that,’ she wondered miserably as she hauled herself out of the car and moved in the direction of the team of firefighters who were attempting to douse the flames.

‘She’s still upset with me about before,’ he thought to himself inaccurately as he watched her small frame advance towards the carnage.

“I think she’s got bigger things on her mind than your little spat,” Esmeralda said.

“Was I thinking out loud?” he asked, shocked.

“Fraid so,” she said.

He failed to notice the relief in her voice at having not been caught out. In some ways he really was too self-centred for his own good. But there again his mother had just died so maybe we can forgive him a certain level of introspection.

Meanwhile outside the car in the cold November air, one of the firefighters was shouting at Bracken to get out of the way for gods sake, could she not see how dangerous it was.

“But the people,” she said desperately, “the people inside…”

“There are no people inside, Miss,” he said impatiently, “they’ve all been rescued.”

“So where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see my aunt and uncle? Did you see my baby?”

“I saw lots of people,” he replied, “but there was no baby though. Youngest kid was a toddler of about three.”

“Charlie Sinclair,” she said, “he’s a wee shite. His mother’s no much better. But what do you mean, no baby? That means my wee boy is still in there! You huv tae to something!”

“Impossible,” he said flatly, “we got everyone out.”

“Is there a chance someone could have found him and you not seen?”

“Not really,” he said, “given I’ve overseen the entire operation.”

Bracken tried to fight back the tears, but this was too much. To lose her hope of true love with a hunky library assistant was bad enough, but to lose her aunt, uncle, flat, and baby in the same evening was just too much.

Wracked with sobs she fell to the ground, paying little heed to the delicate knees of her cat suit, which got all icky and muddy.

“Could someone move this grieving lassie to a safe distance,” the fireman said thoughtfully into his coms device. “I’m worried she’ll get hurt.”

A police officer appeared with a blanket and a cup of sweet tea and gently led Bracken away, but she barely noticed.

‘How am I going to tell Nigella,’ she wondered, knowing that even now her cousin, blissfully unaware, was trying to chat up Aloysius in front of his own girlfriend.

‘Although, maybe if she gets herself in another cat fight I can delay it a bit,’ she thought.

“Feeling better, pet?” The police officer asked kindly. Bracken realized that she had stopped crying and was now rocking silently back and forth.

“No really,” she admitted. “I’ve naewhere tae go, and I’m scared youse’ll make me identify the bodies, and I dinnae ken if I’ve got it in me.”

“What bodies?”

“Ma uncle n’ aunt n’ the bairn.”

“You must be mistaken, we got everyone out of there before the bomb went off.”

“The what now?”

“The bomb. The terrorists phoned it in in time for us to get everyone out, but not in time for it to be diffused.”

“That fireman said there was nae babies got rescued but,” Bracken said.

“Pfft,” said the police officer, “he says a lot of stuff. Lets just see if I can’t find out what’s gone on.”

As she marched off into the darkness, Bracken turned her attention back to the dying embers of the block of flats she had called home since the age of eight. What would Mary-Doll Mahoney make of this, she wondered. And why did she feel so emotionally detached? It was almost as if she was watching a film that was happening to someone else.

“I’m sorry pet,” the police officer said, “the fireman was right. There’s no record of any babies pulled out of the building tonight.”

“What about my aunt and uncle?”

“No sign.”

Bracken pulled the blanket closer round her shoulders, and tried to work out how she felt.

Mostly, she concluded as the last of the flames died out and the crowd of spectators began to disperse, she felt empty. Numb, and cold, and emptier than she had ever felt in her life.

She felt like it was time to write a poem.