Excerpt
Maggie Smithermann fair detests low ceilings, upfeshed as she wiz in thon big hoose in Edinglassie. Edinglassie Hoose (1846) wiz a grand confection. It hid Georgian cornices in its high-high rooms inby and turrets at every corners. History wiz that it wiz thrown up by a herring magnate fur his mistress an their bairn. Maggie’s faither bought it wi his siller fae the oil. Diver he wiz - an then went oan to shipping - diveboats an tugs. Latterly he fermed venison for the German market afore New Zealand imports choked thi trade and syne thi fuel price finally murdert it. Aspirant, ken.
No that ye’d guess fae Maggie’s current pickle, her hied brushin thi artex as she pacit here an back oan Seafield Street ablo a low ceiling.
E bairnie, Tom, is pit doon in thi crib. Wakeful bit an girnin.
Maggie gaes tippy-toe aboot fae parlour tae pantry endeavourin tae cairry oan wi whits left (as she thinks) o her ain life. Pair quine.
An her ain life sterts wi cameras.
Go back.
Her ain life sterts…but naw. It sterts wi cameras. A wee Olympus point an shoot her daddy got her when she wiz eleven. Since syne her life’s wan lang safari, ken? Ey in thi lang grass stalking thi lions. She captures them an pits them in thi zoo is how she sees it. Where she kin watch them…pacin.
Ken – bein, as we all are, of steadily advancing years - there comes a point when, well, ye sell yer wares - ye sell thon thing ye dae. An elephant here. A squirrel there. Whits thon ?– a phalanger or sugar glider.
This is aw a metaphor, ken.
It wiznae beasts aat Maggie pictured – it wiz folk.