Getting married

Granda was rambling on again. I couldn't get away until he found his teeth, that were in his mouth. But there was no convincing him until I'd at least looked down the side of the couch.
Granda said that when Jesus was young and he was younger, when they were both at mass and Jesus was talking about a white Holy City shining on a hill, Granda thought Jesus meant the View, and he was always disappointed when Jerusalem was mentioned.

I wasn't sure if a person called Jesus was sitting next to him at mass, or he was talking about Jesus generally, or if he was talking about the Gospel. I didn't believe in Jesus, but that didn't mean that I was telling Granda that. I'd something else to tell him, but I wasn't sure how to tell him.

Glasgwegians were renouned, the world over, for their subtle cross examination techniques of any prospective partner within fifty yards of their precious bairns, that had been the same since the time of Pontius Pilot. It always started off in the neutral gear of a remark say about the weather.

'Aye, it’s a nice day'.

'Aye, that rain 'll never go aff.'

'That snow's fair cold.'
All that was required of the prospective partner, even if they were not a prospective partner, but say somebody hanging about using the same air as you was to say much the same thing back.

'Aye, it's a nice day'

'Aye, that rain 'll never go aff.'

'That snow's fair cold.'

The prospective partner could vary this conversation, especially if he or she didn't actually know you and was just delivering mail, for example.

'Aye, that snow's getting hotter,' would be an example of a faux pas. Not that anybody in Glasgow believed in such terms. Glasgow people spoke their mind. They were as straight as a die. The salt of the earth. But they didn't like cheeky folk. Especially cheeky folk that were younger than them. That was being disrespectful to your elders. And if you were disrespectful to your elders, as it said in the bible, you deserved a skite.

A skite wasn't a punch. A skite wasn't a slap. A skite was like a pebble skimming over the waves. But in this case the pebble was a human hand and the waves were in your hair. A skite was a blow to the head. But to confuse things their was the friendly skite that entailed something like a light backhand through your hair with reassuring words like:
'ya little devil'.

The more common, unfriendly skite, entailed the full force of a forehand to the head and hair. Some people were naturally gifted and didn't need much practice. Others might need a wee run up and a bit of a practice; hitting your head again and again like demented midges. That was usually a kinda womanly skite.

A prospective partner might get away without a skite, or even just a half womanly kind of skite. This depended on what was said after moving into the nuanced first gear of gabbing.

Glasgow people alway have an opinion about everything. A fact like the moon rocket goes to the moon can be changed to the rocket fair hurtles to the earth. That lets you know that Glasgow folk know about rockets, having built ships since before Noah, and isn't a rocket a kind of ship: A space ship?

There is no such thing in Glasgow as a fact, unless it's about religion. But any parent knows you can't ask the prospective partner about religion. That's a big no. no and shows the kind of casual disregard for manner that only those with horsey teeth and yah yah accents would know how to use.

So the weather is nice. The sky is blue. The parent might fling in a little, moving through the gears, 'aye hen but you can never get too blue a sky!'

Well, you wouldn't need to be 'Our Wullie', from The Broons Annual to know what was being talked about. But not a smirk, nor a smile, or with the full loss of all reason a wink, or muscle in the face would move. Nothing.

The prospective partner would need to know this code. She would have to reply in the affirmative: 'Aye, Ms Campbell you get never get too blue a sky'.

That would be it. A straightforward move into third gear and glorious smiles all round, and you can almost taste the salmon on the sandwiches as the wedding banns are being read. There is only one little inky pinky little thing, that doesn't really matter that much to people like us, but, you know, we just need to ask.

It's third gear and cruising. The wedding cake had been ordered. Just one little thing.

'What school did you go to?'

The world stops spinning on its access. It's the only direct question Glaswegians will ever ask and there is no escaping it.

'Oh, I went to St Patricks, a lovely school' can mean a shift in gears and opinion quicker than QEII breaking water.

'That lovely girl:' suddenly becomes the equivalent of a Yeti at summer camp, as the prospective partner's, prospective parents, develop a peculiar kind of Glasgow rictus. Suddenly there is so many things that need to be done, that very second, that it isn't possible to stop.

As Granda said it was different in his day. Everybody was the same. Everybody's religion was being poor. His pal Dessy had asked to borrow his jacket for a hot date. Granda wasn't that keen. He hadn't had the jacket long. It was his dad's before he died. There was still a lot of good wearing in it. But he compromised and gave his jacket to big Dessy if he'd arrange a date with the hot date's sister. Dessy agreed. But Dessy didn't know if the hot date had a sister. He'd never met the hot date. But they were engaged anyway. They couldn't afford to be fancy Danning about without getting engaged. They weren't that kind of rich shipyard gaffer kinda couple. Granda cut a deal. If the hot date sister was willing; they might as well get married together. There was no point in prolonging these kind of things especially since there was no telling how long the jacket would hold out. He only had one question:

'What school did the hot date's sister go to?'

That meant the difference between Dessy getting the jacket and not getting the jacket.