Let's talk about Frankie

 

Carrying cases across an overgrown lawn,

Wondering who turned the sprinklers on.

Chewing liquorice, clutching at straws

Renewing our faith in Santa Claus.

So... let's talk about Frankie

And where Frankie has gone.

Let's talk about Frankie,

And if Frankie is coming home.

Torchlight flashing, looking for that kid

We know he's hiding but doesn't know what he did

It's a night to remember but it will end

And your only enemy is your only friend.

Let's talk about Frankie,

And all Frankie wrote.

Let's talk about Frankie,

And if Frankie left that note.

Something's going on in the house next door.

They've found the ceiling but lost the floor.

Church hall jumping, boy preacher in town

Now all the trespassers need to be found.

Let's talk about Frankie,

And the deals Frankie made.

Let's talk about Frankie,

And who Frankie never paid.

To buy a life you have to sell off your soul.

Put it in the bank, watch the interest grow.

People on the harbour, broken out of jail;

The Gospel Ship is about to hoist sail.

Let's talk about Frankie,

And that letter Frankie sent.

Let's talk about Frankie

And what Frankie really meant.

Put the frog in the jar, screw down the lid;

Best not to reveal what the politician hid.

A hurting heart and a burning brain

But keep it quiet and never complain.

Let's talk about Frankie

And where has Frankie gone

Let's talk about Frankie

And if Frankie is coming home.

October 2025

Image: Congerdesign (Pixabay)

Daily struggles

 

Confused.

She's so confused about everything that's going on. 

Abused.

She's been abused since the day she was born.

High-viz vests 'neath the bypass; blue blanket on the green grass

Scene screened off with yellow tape. Unfortunate accident or fortunate

escape?

Tired.

He's so tired of trying to make sense of it all

Wired.

So wired, and just sitting staring at that wall.

Social media says blame the refugee;  that's a distraction from the real enemy

It's nurturing hatred and violence while the puppet masters sit behind a paywall of silence.

Crying.

Child crying for something to eat.

Trying.

Parents trying but they knows they're beat.

They know there's nothing more to give; not enough money to live.

Mould on the ceiling, dampness on the wall. The helpline ringing out, no one left to call.

September 2025

Image: Mindworld

Hatred holds hands with care

 

Girl crying out in the street,

Black eye, no shoes on her feet.

Nowhere to go. No one to meet.

There's hope in the depths of her despair,

Behind that bastard at the foot of the stair,

And a belief that someone might just care

Four empty glasses, ten cigarettes

The racing pages, a 2.30 bet.

Another attempt to get out of debt.

It's not about luck, just what's fair

Always trying to get your share,

And the gamble that someone might care.

Boys out there on their nightly parade,

If you look different better be afraid.

They'll convert you with boots and blade

It's not revolution but Reform in the air.

They target faith, colour, what you wear

To show the country how much they care.

Each side believes the other wrong

Violence, greed, and division is the norm.

Which side of the barricade are you on?

There's new meaning being given to prayer

It's in everything, it's everywhere

Hatred is now holding hands with care.

December 15, 2025.

A year in the attic with two St Monans worthies

 

My attic is my space, most of it given over to books, photographs and a very old but loyal computer. It is not the most accessible of places so visitors are very few and far between but for the past year or so I’ve found it very crowded.

Waiting for me every morning have been two St Monans worthies and while they have dominated what I would call my attic ‘working’ hours, they have been with me nearly every waking hour as well. I’m retired now and tend to keep myself to myself so this pair started off as quite an intrusion. Our relationship over those months has become complicated; not helped by the fact that they have both been dead for nearly two hundred years.

No, this is not a ghost story, far from it; in fact, it is the opposite. The last year has forced me to examine ways to bring both of these characters back to life. Back in the early 19th century they were peers, near neighbours with one living on the Braehead, in sight of my attic, and the other in what was Coal Wynd, now Forth Street.

They would have known each other fairly well and I do know they communicated with each other, though that channel appears to have been the written word. It’s doubtful they ever sat down for a good blether and laugh and although there might appear to be a hint of tetchiness between them I’m fairly confident there was a mutual, albeit restrained, respect.

And much as I have tried, despite their common background, I have not been able to completely bridge a sense of distance, perhaps even rivalry, between them and that is a shame because St Monans is indebted to both and yet has ignored them, and the incredible legacy they left their town.

My two guests have been John Jack and Thomas Mathers. The former a schoolmaster; the latter a fisherman. While both worthy careers these are not what gives them their place in history, it is their secondary callings – Jack as a writer and newspaper correspondent, Mathers as a poet.

In their lifetime one was controversial the other celebrated but, in common, after death they and their work became largely forgotten. Given their era was that of the great herring draves and huge socio-economic change in Scotland, their words are deserving of at least a little national resonance. But the fact that St Monans has failed to honour them is simply shameful, and they both lie in unmarked graves.

I felt that same indignation over William Easton when I compiled the book of his photographs, ‘We Live By The Sea’. Easton at the dawn of the 20th century provided a lasting insight into St Monans in its fishing hey-day. But that was the ending of a story that began to peak a century before. And while a picture may well be worth a thousand words, before those images Jack and Mathers captured daily life, one in astonishing verbosity and the other in verse.

I have the longer and stronger relationship with Jack, my Braehead neighbour and a contributor to titles I once edited... though it took quite some time to develop that connection.

His name will be less familiar to St Monans residents today than that of Maggie Morgan, the wronged teenager who is recognised as the last witch to be executed in the town, burned alive in front of the Auld Kirk, while the authorities sat on the office bearers’ chairs and watched her writhe in agony.

The debate continues today over the whole Maggie Morgan legend – which is another issue – but to mark this gruesome injustice St Monans & Abercrombie Community Council gave the nod to the naming of a street after her, with the grisly tale picked up and shared by national, regional and local media.

That tale, whether it be a re-telling or a creation, came from the nib of John Jack. It was exploring this that led me deeper into Jack’s life as a writer and a correspondent. His books and contributions started out as quite inaccessible. His philosophy seemed to be why use one word if half a dozen or the more obscure could do the same job? Eyes became visual organs, feet were pedastals, fishing was a piscatorial avocation, while fish became a scaly tribe...

But what started out as infuriating became intriguing, and reading gave way to hearing a distinct voice, and it was one that offered a unique and fascinating insight into mid-19th century life.

There are rants and wisdom; empathy and rage, humour and sarcasm. Apparently he had followers who eagerly awaited his next reports, not because they had any connection to St Monans but because he was a ‘must-read’. Some laughed with him; others at him.

In one of his books he dealt with the superstitions prevalent at one time in the fishing community. Most of these were not unique to St Monans but there was one fisherman who was aggrieved by this – Mathers. It was enough for the piscatorial poet to put a pen to paper in grievance to the supercilious scribe. That correspondence appears to have been lost but it would seem to be a perfect reflection of how Jack was perceived, and who the rankled rhymer was. And that led to Mathers joining myself and Mr Jack in my attic.

As a young man, Mathers met Lord Byron in Venice, and whether that inspired, motivated or reinforced his muse is unknown but poetry became a major feature in his life. Words did not put food on the table and while Jack earned his keep in front of a classroom, Mathers did so with boat, net and line.

Where Jack tended to be cynical and irreverent, Mathers was a strict God-fearing Presbyterian, a family man promoting temperance, and a respectful servant to the local gentry. The two drew from very different inkwells but had much in common.

Both men, at approximately the same time, sought out a career on the high seas, then settled in St Monans and contributed to the local press. Jack published two books and Mathers’ enduring ambition was to see a volume of his poetry published. His individual works were praised and prized, and he had a solid national following but it was 1851 before his collection of ‘Musings...’ finally went to print. Struck down by jaundice he managed to see and hold his work shortly before he died at the age of 57, but before any of his supporters had received a copy.

Jack would die eight years later, shortly after his second book, but both men’s canon quickly fell out of the public eye, never really to return. What is surprising is that the community they were a part of, and so proud of, never granted them any recognition.

Jack’s name does appear occasionally in academic works when it suits to quote a source from a century before, despite that source being somewhat coy to disclose any of his own sources. Apart from that, he seems to be best remembered for his ‘An Historical Account of St Monance...” and, within that, the Maggie Morgan tale. That aside, he has been mocked and vilified. Yet I believe the more his work is explored the more it demands reassessment.

After my personal deconstruction of the Morgan tale, an entirely new dimension into Jack’s place in St Monans history opened up.

His chronicles during this period of the town’s social history provide an insight into a way of life that bears absolutely no resemblance to the genteel, picturesque, tranquil, sleepy burgh it now is.

And then there is Mathers who looked at life lyrically, literally. In its day his poetry was well received and there are those who are qualified to analyse, criticise or praise his efforts and how they have endured, be they classed as naive, romanticism or Victorian experimentation. But regardless of the academic worth subjectively placed on them, there is a value that surpasses any such verdict. Here was the “fisherman poet”, published and lauded in his day, and he was a St Monans man. Surely this one volume from the minstrel is worth cherishing?

So, after a year spent in both men’s company, I am making the case to have Jack reassessed and doing so by publishing an introduction to his works. My compilation of William Easton photographs was a steep learning curve and there is no doubt my promotion of Jack will meet with even less enthusiasm.

What I’ve learned about Thomas Mathers merits little more than a pamphlet but his ‘Musings...’ have been out of print of 175 years, and they tell you more about the man than any researcher could. The fact that his hometown was never inclined to celebrate that volume of verse or commemorate its author led me to suspect, and ultimately prove, my sharing of it would arouse little interest.

Having bought an ISBN number and appealed for subscribers, who totalled just five and only two of those were from St Monans, the project was funded out of my own pocket. Interestingly, an approach to a well-known bookseller produced a surprise response. A copy needed to be left for its in-house poetry reader so he/she could determine whether or not Mathers merited any shelf-space (and that at a fifty per cent of the cover price commission, which would be more than the production cost!). Given that was more than five weeks ago, it would seem poor Thomas still will not be embraced by his hometown, his county or his country.

The manuscript has now been processed through a publishing company and should be available through Amazon this month. Apart from recovering a few pennies per copy, most proceeds will go into Jeff Bezos’ account. Who’d have thought the ‘Fisherman Poet’, 175 years after his death, could well be funding ‘Melania: The Sequel’?

Nevertheless, I’ll put both down to a ‘loss leader’ but, at least, I have made a start at reanimating two characters from the town I now call home. Having spent a year in their company I am convinced that is the least they deserve.

Letting go

There were always arms,

arms to run into,

to envelop you and shield you.

Arms to defend you and comfort you.

You don’t notice

 when they start to get weaker

 because you just fold into them further. 

Your don’t see them fade 

because you're safe

and your  eyes 

are always closed. 

You don't feel the strength 

that is draining from them

 because you compensate,

 ignore it and weld it

 to your own. 

Then when it is all your strength,

 and all your silence, 

except for distant sobbing, 

only do you open your eyes

 and see there are no arms

 holding you at all. 

Then you can’t remember 

if they were ever there,

Or what they felt like.

It is a loneliness

 you always carry, 

but you keep it

 hidden and buried.

January 2024

Image: OpenClipart-Vectors

Heads, eyes and hands

Come you

Round heads and crowned heads

Thick heads and quick heads

Come you

Hard heads and soft heads

Brave heads and shaved heads

Wise heads and empty heads

See those

Honest eyes and lying eyes

Dry eyes and crying eyes

See those

Open eyes and closed eyes

Blinking and winking eyes

Wide eyes and blind eyes

Hold those

Dirty hands and greasy hands

Open hands and tight hands

Hold those

Praying hands and shaking hands

Hidden hands and forbidden hands

Giving hands and taking hands

Heads, hands and eyes

Hearts of truth and lies

Ears that hear the cries

But let them wail

Let them wail

Damnation or salvation

Choose your prize

With credit to John Jack (1796-1859)

November 7, 2025

Picture: Gerd Altmann (Pixabay)

Perfect spring

The man in the next bed

Is as frightened as I am.

Both of us scarred by time

But our minds clinging to our

Perfect spring.

No-one ever came calling

With a picture of the future.

Those time-served storyline wrinkles

And a frailty so distant from our

Perfect spring.

'How are you feeling?' asks the nurse

As they wheel him away.

'I'm very nervous', he admits

As his memories blur from that

Perfect spring.

There is laughing in the corridor

At today, tonight and tomorrow.

But there's uncertainty in that trinity

So I tighten my wearying grip on that

Perfect spring.

December 2024

Picture: Ivana Tomaskova (Pixabay)

Choose who you trust

Choose who you trust, she said.

Like a secret she was sharing.

She acted like she was caring

But her eyes were cold and dead

As was the expression she was wearing

Only one voice broke the silence

And it was a script everyone knew,

But no one believed it was true.

Another night of lies and violence

Draped in red, white and blue

The dinner conversation was intense

With winner and loser breaking bread,

Both just trying to get ahead.

None of the arguments made sense

But at least both left well fed.

October 10, 2024

Image: Geralt (Pixabay)

(I don’t want to leave) St Monans

Someone moving down on the rocks,

Torchlight flashing at the end of the Blocks.

Girl on the Plerick down on her knees

Hammering copper nails into all those trees.

Sound of digging, a man hard at work,

Caught in the moonlight by the side of the kirk.

Small boat lying just offshore,

Another message pinned to the windmill door.

Winter has blanketed the caravan site,

Everything’s dark, except for a single light

Newark Castle bathed in an eerie glow

What’s burning up there? Best not to know.

Sea Queen crying by the wall of the school,

A single rose thrown in the tidal pool.

Beach littered with ash and nails,

Someone in the coffee shop telling tales.

White van on the east pier, driver on a call,

A package hidden between the creels and the wall.

Ruckus broke out on Braehead last night,

Everyone just pulled their curtains tight.

The fishing has gone, and it won’t be back,

Just like Rush and Mathers, Easton and Jack.

They are in the shadows at the end of the pier,

Yesterday is fading, and tomorrow is unclear.

But…

I don’t want to leave St Monans.

I swear,

I just don’t care

To go

Anywhere...

Else.

January 2022

Feeling a bit under the leather?

 

A little while back, while volunteering at our small local museum, a young family from abroad were intrigued by an exhibit, the likes of which they had never seen before.

It was a strip of leather, with a shaped grip at one end and two prongs at the other.  We know it as the ‘tawse’.

I’d also not long finished Nanzie McLeod’s book, ‘Tales from the East Neuk’, where, in one chapter, she describes the over-use of the ‘tawse’ and one teacher’s over-enthusiastic application of it. It was actually a disturbing passage from a time where if a child asked to go to the toilet, he or she would be permitted, but would be ‘belted’ on return. The option was to wet yourself and be spared the leather but then endure the humiliation of your classmates watching you mop up your own puddle.

So a few days later there I was explaining to visitors, from a different country and generation, how this ‘tawse’ was used to punish children and was a common teaching accessory across Scotland, only finally being banned in 1987.

Like most boys, and some girls, I was belted at school. I wasn’t a frequent victim of the punishment and, in my era, there were some who competed for the highest tally as a masochistic badge of honour.

My mother had been belted at school for ‘talking’ when it actually had not been her. The pupil code of honour meant you could not incriminate a classmate, not that it probably would have done any good, so she took her punishment and, while the pain would have quickly subsided, the injustice endured for the rest of her days.

I could sympathise with that. Even though I could accept that most of the times I was belted I had, according to the rules of the day, deserved it, my lingering personal memory is the one unjust belting I received

Sitting quietly in class, the lad behind me, who I believe had watched an episode of the Man from UNCLE the evening before, decided to practise a Napoleon Solo karate chop on me. My bare, unprepared neck suddenly took the full force of the side of my classmate’s hand. I still remember the pins and needles that went through my head and spine, all the way down to my toes, and the black mist that blurred my eyes. The unexpected blow pushed me forward and I squealed in pain.

What was equally unexpected was the lesson that came with this unprovoked attack. Apparently uttering any sound when subjected to a full-force martial arts blow qualifies as academic insolence. So with shaky knees, blurred vision, and tingling from teeth to toe, I was yanked out in front of the class, the tawse was removed from its tin box home, and I was given ‘two of the best’, screamed at, and shoved back into my seat.

It was an unfair punishment, but I saw many of these. Some linger as disturbing memories and while many of my age will have similar tales to tell, even as a young child there seemed something seriously wrong with a grown adult attacking as child with a strip of thick leather.

At my primary school you were spared the tawse until primary three, after that you were fair game for a good leathering. So, by my reckoning, that would have been ages seven and upwards.  Without judging the overall rights and wrongs of corporal punishment, in that era there was a case to be made for the belt being used to curb bad or dangerous behaviour, but then there were areas where you just have to ask, “What sort of adult could justify inflicting pain on a child for THAT?”

Needing to go to the toilet as described in Nanzie McLeod’s book, certainly falls into that category, as does, ‘in my book’ failing to salute your teacher if you saw them outwith school.

These two example are just bizarre acts of cruelty and self-importance, but there was one more instance, commonly accepted, where the belt was widely wielded and seen as completely justified, and that was in academic performance.

In my school days, it was humiliating enough for children to be seated according to their abilities, there was the zone of terror associated with being ‘bottom of the class’ and the teacher’s pets who occupied the lofty heights of being ‘top of the class’.

I endured neither of these pressures, being safely ensconced in the middle rankings, but even as children we all felt there was something just not right about that ‘bottom of the class’ ranking. It wasn’t a revolving role, those that occupied those handful of seats rarely moved, and the tenant of that lowliest of desks was usually a permanent resident.

As we moved into primary seven, around 40 of us, our teacher saw the belt not just as a means of punishment but as a vital teaching aid, one that could improve every aspect of your academic ability. It was a cure for dyslexia; it improved your understanding of arithmetic; it could help you spell; it could help you write quickly in dictation tests... 

Where teaching failed and ability was restricted, the solution was to inflict as much physical pain as you legally could on a child, then it would all be good.

To this day, I firmly believe that ‘Miss’ who stood in front of us should have been thrown out the profession, charged with assault, and a restraining order imposed so she was never allowed near a child again.

Harsh?  I don’t think so. And I rest my case on the Friday when all but one of us sat in silence and realised that what was unfolding in front of our impressionable eyes was not just wrong, but cruel and demented.

Friday mornings became our academic judgement day. We had a string of tests that began with mental arithmetic, followed by spelling, then dictation (rapid long hand with correct punctuation and spelling), then ‘problems’.

A certain number of mistakes saw you being given extra class work as punishment. More sums to do, correcting each spelling mistake by writing it correctly ten times, being given extra dictation and extra homework etc.

Somewhere in her warped perception of the world, Miss decided it would be an inspiring spectacle for the rest of us if the worst performer in the class in each of these subjects was belted – given a damn good thrashing.

Now, let’s call him ‘Mossy’. He was a gentle wee soul, polite, always spotlessly turned out, friendly, and a hard worker who always did as he was told. But try as he might, and he did try, academically he needed help and support. He needed one-to-one teaching, an adult whipping him with leather was not going to help. We all knew that, except Miss.

So this one Friday, Mossy flunked his metal arithmetic test badly, as he always did but instead of being given extra sums, he was pulled out from behind his bottom-of-the-class desk, and with his wee hand outstretched received four, or possibly six, of the best, along with a good screaming from Miss about how stupid he was.

Sobbing, he was shoved back into his seat, told to stop his snivelling, and the rest of us were given a lecture on what would happen to us if we performed as badly as Mossy.

It was a horrible sight to witness and created an atmosphere, not of fear because those at the top end of the classroom knew they were never going to face that level of punishment, ever. I remember it more of an unsettling mood; without speaking we had witnessed something that was very wrong.

Then we moved on to the spelling test.

I remember I got a few wrong but Mossy failed miserably. And with tear stains on his face and his hand bright red from the last belting, he was again positioned in front of us and, crying with so much pain, he took another thrashing as the tawse repeatedly came thundering down on him.

This just didn’t make sense, and I don’t know if Miss, having made her threats at the start of this Friday morning felt she had no option but to continue this bizarre academic lesson.

Dictation was up next, and that was a subject us middle-rankers had previously been screamed at over our performance. I still don’t really understand its merit in a primary curriculum. In a shorthand course, yes, but to have a teacher read out a passage and you try and take it down in long hand, with no spelling or punctuation mistakes is a challenge. If you struggled with a word, you would drop behind and forget what had been said. There was always a chance you could submit a nearly blank page for marking. That had happened in the past to Mossy, and it happened again.

So for a third time, this wee lad, shouted at, insulted  and pulled in front of the class, was expected to take another belting.

By now he was sobbing uncontrollably and, refusing to hold out his hand, he stuttered, “No Miss, no, I’m no’ taking the belt again. I’m going home and tellin’ my mum and dad...”

At that he made for the classroom door and had just got his hand on the handle when Miss grabbed him. She started slapping him around the head so hard that he ended up on the floor. By now she was apoplectic and dragged him out the classroom. In the corridor outside we could hear her screeches and his sobs while the whacks continued. Then he was apparently hauled up to the headmaster and, I believe on account of his insolence, he was sent home.

Miss returned to an unusually silent class. I have no recollection of anyone speaking at all, certainly an unusual phenomenon when a teacher wasn’t present. It was as if we all knew we had been witness to something unnatural.

I’m not sure but I think because of the beltings and Mossy’s departure from school, we weren’t given our problems’ test that Friday. That was a relief to all of us.

Did that mark the end of the beltings, or the Friday nightmares? No, of course not, though I don’t recall them ever being so uncontrolled again. Mossy was back at school that Monday and life went on much as before with Miss sitting at her desk sucking on a boiling while her belt lay coiled in that tin before her.

I don’t know the long-term effect all these thrashings had on Mossy but they had a profound effect on me.

When the next visitor to the museum asks about the ‘tawse’ I won’t share this tale, but it shouldn’t be forgotten. Lessons were certainly learned with all those beltings from the tawse but the most important ones concern those hands that gripped it, not those who waited to feel it.

Picture: Examples of the tawse, made in Lochgelly. An exhibit in the Abbot House, Dunfermline. The painting is 'The Dominie Functions' (1826) by George Harvey (1806-1876). The image was composed by Kim Traynor.

Bills and wills at journey’s end

 

There is a weariness to my moods these days. It weighs most heavily when I take a backward glance at my past and it sits in my mind’s eye just for a few seconds alongside the present, like one of those ‘then and now’ photo features.

Like many folk, when I stopped earning, your state pension becomes a sharp reminder that life has changed and unexpected expenses you used to wince at before can now force a dramatic rethink on so many different aspects of your life.

When you are confronted with an unavoidable bill, you take the matter very seriously, weighing up what steps you will need to take before you start finding that all important tradesman. But that financial worry and anxiety is added to by the process of trying to find someone willing to take your money.

I’m sure it wasn’t always like this. We are facing a roof repair and I’m expecting this is not going to be a small change job. Over the past fortnight we have contacted a good number of firms, some more than once. Out of that total, only one has replied, and that was to say the job was of no interest.

My money is as good as the next person’s, so is business booming to such an extent that we have now gone from the capitalist dream of cost-effective competition to over-priced monopolies? Keeping the customer satisfied seems to be in the past, as does respecting those who trust you enough to hand over their hard-earned, or rationed, cash.

How, and when, did the world I once know change so much?

And that brings me to the real downer.

I’m not organised enough to plan decades ahead, and neither is my wife, so when the decision came to draw up our will and testament, it was one made in the shadow of human frailty and finality. Obviously, you hope this document will stay safely sealed for a long time to come but, realistically, we know it is something that needs doing… now.

On a personal level, a lawyer’s office is not a place I have frequented. I’ve had numerous professional engagements with the legal world but, on a personal face-to-face level, they have been very rare occasions.

The last time I visited our family’s legal firm, which seems to have been in operation since the days of quills and candles, had to be more than 20 years ago. Then it was with my mother and, if I remember correctly, something to do with deeds and, as was her wont, ensuring all her official paperwork was in order. A trait I never inherited.

I remember the visit clearly. The sparkling woodwork and fragrance of furniture polish. The clicking of keyboards, the atmosphere of quiet efficiency, the ambiance of a learned profession, aloof from the mundane modern world outside.

I didn’t find it intimidating, but reassuring. A world of knowledge, dignity and timeless decorum.

And decades later I was back, standing outside the door. All the shops in the street were locked up on this weekday afternoon, the brass name plaques needed polished, the door needed varnished, and it was locked. When we made the appointment we were warned we might have to knock.

The office seemed silent as the knock echoed through the building. There were no keyboards clicking, no telephones ringing, just silence.

It took a while but the solicitor duly unlocked the door and we stepped inside. It was empty; not just empty, it felt abandoned.

“Ah, Mr and Mrs Morkis,” said the solicitor. “I’ll be with you in a minute, please take a seat.”

He gestured to a small place under the staircase while he went of to fetch the necessary papers.

So this was it? Our will and testament, our final legal act while of sound mind. Signing off from our lives, and signing away all we had at the end of a journey we had made together.

This was the solemnity of the occasion. A small table covered by a plastic 'cloth', opposite a broken office chair, a rust-stained, leak-damaged radiator, under a flight of stairs, in an empty office.

When he returned with those all-important and pricey documents, word for word the same as my late mother’s but with my name instead of hers, I wasn’t expecting parchment but I have a heavier stock of copy paper from Home Bargains for my desktop printer.

We duly signed the pages and were ushered back out on to an empty street, and the door closed behind us, and on our lives, at least legally.

That was it.

I am made to feel of more value at a supermarket checkout. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. Did I really expect to be treated differently from someone looking for legal representation for a forthcoming breach of the peace case? Yes, I did.

This was a solemn moment of finalising the paperwork that would act as the bridge between our deaths and those left behind. At least that how we both saw it. It was a jolt to realise we were just an irrelevant broken-down couple in a broken Britain.

It would have been more satisfying to scrawl my last wishes on the back of an abandoned cigarette packet while having a tea and a Kit Kat in a transport cafe.

As you get older, there are so many areas where you feel, or are made to feel, worthless and insignificant.

This was certainly one of them.