Sentence The Fivehundredandsixtysixth 

 

So. the very next morning, Sunday the 17th November 1946, Connor O'Hare from the County Clare, made his way from The Gorbals to Maryhill and asked around about the man in number 138 Wilton Street; oh, and it made interesting listening, for the man was a couthie character, had apparently been well-established as a tailor, although his business had undergone some radical changes in the past few weeks: after building up his Gents' Outfitting business over many years, during which his skills as a tailor had become legendary, he declared there would be no more hand-sewing for him! he turned the shop overnight into a Ladies' Emporium, took on several seamstresses in addition to his two apprentices and is now producing bespoke garments for women of all classes and doing all the

measuring himself – which had plenty of tongues wagging, although his relations with his wife appeared to have become more conjugal than ever, like a kind of symphysis was taking place and she was fair blooming on it; his visits to The Clansman became less frequent and, even when he went there he drank less, and hurried home to his wife; to Connor's ears, it sounded highly unlikely that

this prosperous business man, with a beautiful and loving wife, could possibly be The Intruder AKA Reichsmarshall Hermann Goering; why he was even being considered by three, if not four or more,

political parties to contest the recently vacant (following the resignation of the sitting member after a Police investigation into his business and financial affairs had thrown up a few unsavoury allegations) Maryhill seat on Glasgow City Council which, were he to win the vote, would provide him with a bully pulpit to preach his present message of love and understanding that, as a lay preacher in the United Congregational Unitarian Church of High Possil he had recently been

espousing on Sunday mornings, very different from the message of Hellfire and Damnation he had been propounding for the past seven years, putting the blame for the lax morals visible to anyone who takes a stroll through Maryhill Park after closing time, something he was known to do himself,

largely on women's suffrage and the heretical and un-Biblical idea that there could possibly be any degree of equality between the sexes, running counter to the unchallenged factual history of Adam and Eve - "he's been living in Maryhill for thirty years," Connor explained to Tam and Boabie, "it's impossible for him to be who you thought he was, ah ken he looks like him, but honestly, how can he be?" but Tam was not to be so easily persuaded: "mebbe he bumped the real Hamish aff, and stole his claes, it's easy tae disguise yersel," he exclaimed, "it happens aw the time in the picters, an naebdy realises yer no the fella ye say ye urr, mind yon filum, The Prince and the Pauper? thon wis a rare

picter, mebbe him and the other feller is identical twins, an ane o them got lost as a babby, ah bettit happens aw the time!" but his Da just laughed and said: "ye've a grand imagination, richt enough, son, an the gift o the gab an aw, so mebbe ye'll grow up tae be an Advocate," and Tam was cut to the marrow at the suggestion: "aw Da!" he cried, "am urny goanie be a Snawba!" which was when Connor doubled up with laughter, realising that wee Snooker Tam had thought he was referring to his Mammy's favourite drink of Advocaat, lemonade and ice cream!