Bridging it

There I was, in a restaurant with a man who was not the Resident IT Consultant, when my next door neighbours walked in. Of all the Frankie & Benny’s, in all the towns, in all the world, they walked into this one. Not that it mattered. I had permission (I did, didn’t I, dear?), and it gave Kirkland Ciccone and me a bit of a giggle.

Because it was him. He is working his way round the local ladies, and it was my turn. I know who he met last time, and who he will see next…

As for the neighbours, they told us they’d walked into town and across what the Grandmother calls ‘the silly bridge’ for the first time. Me too. And it gave me the heebie jeebies. The things I do for literature. I got up there and it was like ‘aarrgghhhh.’ You could see all the way down! It was glass! Aarrgghhhh! I decided there and then that I would not return the same way. But I had to.

Forthside pedestrian bridge, photo by

Oh well. Kirkland wore a juvenile sort of doggy jumper, which looked cheerful enough (and apart from that his jacket was too thin, as the boy clearly doesn’t know how to dress warmly in what is a rather cold winter). He tried to make me eat onion rings, but I’m not that daft.

We talked about Nancy Drew, and council housing versus kelpies, and about Kirkland’s ‘baby,’ Yay! YA, the YA events day in Cumbernauld in April. It’s brought him more work than he could have imagined, and everyone wants to be part of it and everyone wants to talk to Kirkland; the BBC, The Bookseller and even me.

After plenty of gossip, he ran for his bus, while I hobbled home, over the bridge. (Never again.)

But at least no one walked off with my cheesecake, unlike that other cheesecake I almost lost a couple of weeks ago. Shame really, as this one wouldn’t have been so bad to lose.

And, Happy Birthday to me! I’m – we’re – eight today.


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