Mothering Sunday on call

"I hate Mother's Day," said K, 13 years old, and 4 months in foster care. She'd taken an overdose of ibuprofen last night, triggered by thoughts of her own mother, who is currently in hospital having taken an overdose herself. TJ*, in the next room, is less than 2 weeks old and is already being taken into care; he is attached to a baby alarm (sounds like a car alarm); it has to be disabled by turning a key in the lock at the end of his cot before lifting him out of it. It's been going off every few hours, because the auxillary nurses (in these gentler parts - compared to Hackney anyway) aren't used to this kind of thing, and keep forgetting.

*Tom had arrived on Saturday evening by "rocket" (his name for the helicopter ambulance). An ex-premature baby, now nearly 5 years old, he looked tiny in the full sized hospital bed. He sat with a furrowed brow, misting his oxygen mask as he scribbled furiously a green crayon. "He's worried about the Mother's Day present he's hidden under his bed," said his mum. Tom looked up at Dr. M. "You'll just have to have Mothering Tuesday, then" he said. Tom smiled in agreement.

The obligate Glasgow post

This is the bus journey from our front door to Central Station:

Boarding the double-decker with hastily folded-over sandwich in hand (made with homemade bread! but that's another story), I bounce into a seat with the glee of having caught the bus at the last second. Suddenly, the driver stomps up the stairs and yells at a scraggly, puffer-jacketed figure slumped at the back "You, get out here!" "Nah." she mumbles. "This bus isn't moving." He tramps down again and turns off the engine. It turns out she had only fare enough to get her here, the bus stop in front of our recently grafitti'd front door. After a 5 minute stand-off, she slopes off the bus and we get moving.

The bus pulls away, past the park with its ducks, swans and astroturf 5-a-side football pitches. Past the run-down pubs, the Natives smoking outside in their T-shirts despite it being 6 degrees with a northwesterly wind. Past the local concert hall, where Lily Allen (Lily Allen?!) is playing tonight (SOLD OUT it says, on the billboard), and the bingo hall next door. Past the underground station, its austere brick decorated with incongruous hanging flower baskets, and the Habib Islamic bank and Halal fried chicken joint. Under the rail bridge we go, beyond the Foam Car Wash, Used Car Sales and a yard containing brand new carved headstones, a few, disturbingly, teddy-bear shaped.

A sharp right takes the bus onto a bridge over the river Clyde, and then, quite abruptly into the centre of Glasgow.