I am not in the habit on writing in straight lines. I often dodge the blunt facts when I weave them into words. However, earlier this year our family lost our heid honcho. Violet Black Kelly Archbold, 1918-2017. The full story of this woman’s impact on our lives is for another day. But there’s one wee element I’d like to share with you. Having moved off the mainland to Mull in her 80th year, she kept her Tradeston beginnings in her heart. She loved her food. More importantly, she appreciated it. She’d seen empty purses and she never forgot it.
One of her favourite things was a fish supper, especially if she was back in Glasgow. A real fish supper. It’s been on my mind a lot these past few months. I’ve done a lot of wandering and thinking for one reason or another, neither of which I’ll be sharing here. And there were days where I ate purely to sustain myself. Not for hunger or want. Not for fancy or whim. But because I knew I had to stay standing. And on the hardest of those days, it instinctively had to be a fish supper.
How many times have fish suppers held a family together. Late departures from agonising hospital visiting hours at the Vicky, Mammy too tired too cook, nae time to think, crisis point standing at the door. A fish supper. What’s a treat for the two wee lassies who’ve been good all day (nearly)? A wee poke a chips, fish for mammy, extra vinegar and eating in front of the telly. What immortal being, stoating out Rab Ha’s disnae hear their belly cry… a wee fish supper pal..? You’ve earned it.
It’s a leveller. It’s Glasgow. Standing in the dusk, paper torn open, manners in yer pocket for the time being, missed yer bus cos ye were queuing for a wee fish supper..
Whatever status you may have assigned yourself and whatever point of decline or progress you stand at, a fish supper is not beyond you. And nor you it.
Garter 