This little tale has its origins in two elderly Old Pollokshaws characters who seemed to me as a small boy to be frighteningly exotic.

The old lady wore a black shawl over a black dress and seldom left her small house. She lived with what I remember as hundreds of cats and smoked a clay pipe.

The old gentleman was scruffy, grubby, and had a small horse and a small yappy, frightening dog. He made a poor living selling kindling around the streets from the back of his horse and cart. Occasionally he sounded a bugle and shouted “Toys for Rags”.

From age 5 to 9 I was a regular attender at the Salvation Army Band of Hope. One evening I left my brown hand-knitted balaclava on the seat and was sent back the next day to look for it. The cleaning lady found it for me.

After almost sixty years I still have strong memories of Pollokshaws. As I wrote this tale I began to hatch another longer tale which is still bubbling in what passes for my brain.