Excuse me mate, are you replacing her roof?
I called out to the man standing on my neighbour, Horntooth's roof.
I had been alerted by a considerable banging and swearing from outside and had sauntered out to see what was going on.
There were two vans parked across my neighbour's drive as if they were SWAT trucks at a School shooting and on the roof was a motley collection of dudes tearing stuff from her side-roof which, I may add, is not a euphemism.
How?
One of the Roofers with a face like beef soaked in red wine glowered down at me as if I had just accused him of wearing skirts and calling himself Jemima at the weekend.
Just asking because I was thinking of getting my garage roof replaced.
Despite his bastarding unfriendliness, I nodded amiably as if we were old comrades in arms talking about the war.
Aye, good luck wi' that.
Beefwine sneered as he looked over at my leaky garage which leaned in an embarrassed fashion against my house.
So are you replacing her roof?
Undaunted, I pressed on. I had had a few quotes for getting my garage roof replaced before but all of them were fucking preposterous with one chap even telling me he wouldn't go near the job. Seeing as the side- roof of my neighbours was much the same size, it would be handy to know what they were charging.
Whit does it look like?
Beefwine snapped belligerently, his already purple face darkening further.
I frowned, truly this was the shit thing about living in Glasgow. Everyone wanted a fight. You say hello to someone in the street and they look at you as if gearing up for a stabbing.
It looks like you are ripping chunks out of her roof so I presume she is paying you for it.
I tried my best to stay calm just in case Beefwine decided it was time for a rammy.
Not for the first time I wished that everyone could just try to be a little nicer. Was it too much to ask?
Who's HER, the cat's mother?!
Horntooth appeared out from her front door. She was an ancient crone, prone to mumbling things about the government and burying potatoes in her garden late at night.
Hi there. I was just wondering if you were getting your roof done?
I waved over at my neighbour who, despite all her witchy bad-tempered ways was normally an ok sort of person.
He wiz askin' us what we were up tae?
Bellowed Beefwine indignantly as if I had asked for a bite of his sandwich that his mum made for his lunch.
Whit ye askin' them what they're doing for?
Horntooth looked from the guys on the roof and then back to me. Her face crouching into itself with suspicion.
Look, I was just fucking asking if they were doing your roof so I could get a rough idea of the price for my roof there. That was it. Fuck sake.
An exasperated note of crotchety was creeping into my voice and I felt the angry vein on my forehead start to throb. He wants to know how much is in your purse! Beefwine cackled victoriously having now dragged money into it in that most Scottish of ways. Ma purse? How? Whit business is it of yours how much it is? I can afford it. It's nobody's business but mine. Horntooth agitatedly paced about her driveway as if I had scattered bread on it and she was a hungry bird. Fucking hell, never mind!? I stomped away growling mean things under my breath. Bloody Scottish folk, they can be a right bunch of gnarly bastards. Shaking my head, I entered my front door only to stop as someone called out. I turned to see the mailman, letters in hand and a cheery smile on his face. What was that all about? He asked good-naturedly. Never fucking mind mate. I took the letters from his outstretched hand and slammed the door on him. See, a right fucking gnarly bunch.
The angry vein is a fearsome thing to behold. Some have said it makes my forehead resemble a bad-tempered penis. Gits.
