Candy floss.

During the Glasgow trades fortnight his mum would rent out their front room. The town would be full to the brim. Donkey rides on the beach, boat trips round the bay, boys fishing from the pier. An old man sails his fishing boat out to sea and falls asleep.

An oil rig in the Forth, waiting for it’s future.

Dogs chasing gulls, chasing children chasing gulls across fields of Fife collecting birds eggs, way back when.

The retired, the self-employed, the not working people of the town sit on benches, faces tilt to the lukewarm sun saying, ‘Braw day.’

And the holidays seem not so far away, a memory or two caught in the twinkling lights of the amusement arcade, there and then not in the late afternoon November half light.