All together now.

Abstract

Growing up in 1960s East End of Glasgow, our family GP was straight from the pages of AJ Cronin. Chain-smoking, single-handed and practising from a lean-to garage; his craggy smile, partly obscured by an ashtray mountainous with fag-ends, became visible at 5 yards through a thick carcinogenic pall. Rumour had it he’d once been a fine middle-distance runner but his face was hardly Seb Coe; more Glencoe really. My mother lived by the dedicated doctor’s word. The only advice I recall her ever declining was his suggestion that — being a rather introverted child — I would benefit from the close companionship of a pet. He prescribed a dog. No animal lover, mum compromised on a goldfish. My equally solitary Goldie survived just a fortnight, taken to an early grave courtesy of my older brother in that awkward phase of tormenting younger siblings and torturing innocent creatures (he went on to excel …