It’s a bustling Friday evening in Glasgow, and most people are more interested in being out, and getting to where they want to be, than in a skinny teenager with choppy red hair strumming a Bob Dylan song. But Johnny and Cal have stopped and are playing the ‘how much to throw in the guitar case?’ game.‘He’s really good, Dad,’ Cal says. ‘I reckon at least ten quid.’‘I can’t give a tenner to a busker!’ Johnny exclaims with a grin, basking in the comfortable ordinariness of being out in the evening with his son. They’ve been to the cinema, the vast multiplex with all the escalators that Cal still enjoys riding up and down on, even at twelve years old. If this were a normal Friday night, they’d be heading back to Johnny’s flat where Cal spends most weekends. They’d get up early, pick up some shopping and maybe, if Johnny was feeling generous, Cal would be treated to a strawberry tart from the posh new patisserie where everything comes in a fresh white box. Not this one, though.
