Sure enough it started with that early morning knock at the door.
The staccato bark of official ebony against the solid oak door reverberated violently around the vaulted ceilings of the old building. I knew then it wasn't to be a social call.
I tried to muster a witty line as I waited for the first rapid footfalls of my wife still ensconced in her morning shower. 'Happy birthday oul son' rested briefly in my thoughts. I had just turned 39.
I buttoned each pearl fastener on my crisp white shirt and slipped into a pair of comfortable shoes. I had already decided that electronic gates would be the best way forward. After all, solid oak doors didn't grow on trees.
An English voice, it's vowels heavily distorted with a comedic Essex clatter announced their arrival as they stood and dripped dirty rain water onto my newly waxed floor. Officialdom heralded by the nasal twang fae the auld enemy was always a step too far in Glasgow.
I thought back to happier times when we had found the now soiled hallway rug in a flea market in Prague. It had been raining then, but I had been her hero as I had carried it the entire way back fastened only with light brown string to the hotel without dampening the exquisite detailing in the dark puddles. We had stopped beside a huge monolith inside the ancient cemetery in the old town. The name of a man I couldn't pronounce stood in judgement upon me as I held her beautiful face in my one free hand as we kissed.
The fallen cross in the graveyard now mocked me as I was walked out to the waiting car. It was time to turn over a new leaf before the withered crisp of the winter debris curled lazily with the wind around a stone baring my own name.
