A vagrant wanders empty ruins.
Suddenly he’s wealthy.
Rumi
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We were just kids, only eleven, growing up in the Glasgow slums in the sixties. Without two pennies to rub together, my two pals and I used to spend our days exploring derelict buildings, poking around the rubble with sticks, always on the lookout for treasure—or anything that might spark our curiosity.
One afternoon, I think it was Harry who spotted an old, weather-beaten jacket lying in the corner of a half-collapsed room. He rummaged through the pockets, and to our amazement, pulled out three five-pound notes and a ten-bob note. We stared in disbelief, then broke into wild cheers, dancing around as if we’d won the lottery.
With the ten-bob note, we treated ourselves to a slap-up meal from the chippy, and with the rest we each bought a tin of Creamola Foam. We mixed it with water in old jam jars and spent the rest of the day fizzing with delight, laughing and burping in the sunshine.
But looking back now, I sometimes wonder who that jacket belonged to. Three fivers and a ten-bob note; that could’ve been a man's wages for a week. Maybe he lost it on his way home, or maybe he never made it there at all.
We were just boys, caught up in the thrill. But someone, somewhere, might have paid dearly for that joy. But eleven-year-olds don't think that far down the road.
Note: Creamola Foam,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creamola_Foam
