The Chronicles of St Mungo Square

The Chronicles of St Mungo’s Square are written by Aileen Paterson, a member of one of our Hub groups, The Scribble Creative Writers. Aileen has been working on them since the group started meeting in the Clarice Pears.  She has been following the work and changes outside the building.  We are very grateful to Aileen for allowing us to share her writings.  They provide a social history of the Western Campus development from May 2023 until May 2024 and we will publish them in instalments. They remind me of Glasgow artist, Mitch Miller’s ‘pigeon’s eye’ drawings he terms ‘Dialectograms’  which are ‘illustrations drawn not from on high, but as those at ground level see and live it’. The Chronicles describe the new campus and Clarice Pears becoming part of the West End community.

 

31st January 2024

I arrive in the square in the middle of a storm, utterly soaked, and seek refuge in the ARC building. I sit at the window with a latte and watch a small black scottie dog in a red tartan jacket trot across the square, seemingly undaunted by the adverse weather. The grasses in the square have grown and turned brown and are blowing in the wind. The trees look as windswept and bedraggled as I feel. A woman brings me a slice of margherita pizza and grinds some black pepper on it.

People wander across the square as the rain falls sideways. Hoods up, heads down. Only the men in high vis jackets seem nonchalant, undisturbed, protected by white hard hats and waterproofs. Bernard the crane has gone and only the diggers remain, yellow lights blinking. Two people dressed in black jackets walk backwards against the rain, smiling. I wander into the Clarice Pears building in search of poetry and companionship.

31st January 2024 (continued)

Revived by my companions and somewhat drier, I return to my writing, finding a spot by the window in the Clarice Pears building, which is close as I am willing to venture to the square. The rain continues persistently, as if it could go on like this for days. In the square, people seek protection from the elements by holding magazines or jackets over their heads. A black and white flag flutters in the breeze, hinting at piracy.

The square does not seem to have much missed my presence over the winter break and I hope it has not forgotten me. Perhaps it is just feeling neglected and undocumented and is feigning indifference, or maybe the weather is dampening its enthusiasm at my return. Wet leaves and a discarded paper cup blow across the square. People wear muted colours – black, burgundy and grey, apart from the men in high vis jackets. Lights have come on in the pillars in the square, the first time I have noticed this, though they do little to illuminate the gloom. People battle with black umbrellas that like to be inside out, colluding with the wind. They would much rather fly over rooftops than be held, grounded by humans, kept from their true desires. They want only to be one with the wind, to soar, to be free.

14th February 2024

I am back in the ARC café eating yellow split pea soup and focaccia and yet again watching rain fall on the square. Men in high vis jackets are cutting the brown grass in the rain gardens, pausing in their work only to vape. The café is very busy but I manage to find a free seat by the window. People arrive at the ARC building wrapped in warm jackets and hats and carrying take away coffee. There is a solitary digger and a white lorry exiting the building site. The digger decides to stop right in front of the lorry, blocking its exit, for reasons that elude me. The rain today is not heavy, but persistent, cold and irksome enough to keep me from sitting in the square.

There is little of romance about the day apart from the date, and there feels little to celebrate at this time of year, at least in Scotland. I seem to spend most of February hiding from storms or squelching through mud in the aftermath of storms. The sky is an unromantic blanket of pale grey. A man in a high vis jacket saunters across the square with a spade over his shoulder. Metal fencing blocks off nearby streets. The university spire rises out of the gloom, solemn and foreboding, as if it has escaped from a gothic novel. It tries to pretend it has always been here, the most ancient of buildings, and dares onlookers to say any different.

6th March 2023

With illness preventing me from venturing out my flat much over the last few weeks, I have been again neglecting the square. Today it feels much more peaceful, spring is springing on us and green shoots are emerging from the rain gardens, which were little more than dry brown grass the last time I saw them. Leaves are appearing on the trees and even a little blossom.

There is not much in the way of construction machinery and a distinct lack of men in high vis jackets. It occurs to me it may even be pleasant to sit in the square again, rather than at my current perch at the window in the ARC café. I am so accustomed to sheltering from adverse weather, it has only just occurred to me that I might sit outside again. However, the cakes are in here, so some kind of compromise might need to be reached.

A black poodle and a brown spaniel greet each other in the square, tails wagging. Students walk staring into phones, somehow evading each other and the not inconsiderable obstacles posed by the rain gardens, bollards and concrete cubes in the square, as well as a concrete platform whose purpose remains unclear. A woman in a mustard coloured hat paces the platform with her three small children, possibly wondering the same thing. I feel she might be a kindred spirit as she gazes at the blossom on the trees and ponders the rain gardens. Perhaps the most surprising thing to have emerged from these chronicles is how little anybody looks at the things around them. A man with sunglasses pushed over his head smokes a real cigarette – not vaping – and I consider how rare this seems to be now, at least in the square. I assume he is something of an eccentric. He stubs out the cigarette on a nearby bin and walks into the ARC building. I speculate on his vocation but he’s impossible to place, merely being dressed in grey. I suppose he might be an Advanced Researcher.

At last a man in a high vis jacket and hard hat arrives and enters the building site. A crow lands evasively behind a bin and stalks off, as if it knows I’m here and doesn’t want to be written about. Two policemen cycle through the square, chatting to each other. More people in high vis jackets appear – things are looking up.

6th March 2023 (continued)

I am sitting outside in the square now, which feels quite blissful after what feels like about six months of adverse weather. I am told that someone walks their parrot on a lead in the square sometimes, and also that there are projections which light up the buildings at night, but of course I miss anything that doesn’t happen on a Wednesday lunchtime. If I see the parrot, I might ask it to dictate its thoughts for the chronicles.

The men in high vis jackets appear to have departed for the day. Their work appears somewhat half-hearted now, the presumably more fun destructive work seeming to be mostly completed.

13th March 2024

A man wheels a suitcase slowly through the square, pausing briefly to take a photo of the ARC building. A solitary bicycle with a wicker basket is parked in the bike stand. A man in a high vis jacket cups his hand round the cigarette he’s lighting then sits down, exhaling smoke into the cool spring air. The trees are erupting in blossom. A digger is paused in its work. I enter the ARC building and check the ‘What’s On’ monitor to see today’s events. An enticing selection is on offer, including a Research Staff Assembly, Innovation 101 Foundational training, the Glasgow Spatial Biology conference and a Quantic workshop. Whilst I contemplate my choices, I get a latte and a chocolate cannoli from the café and sit by the window looking out onto the square. The pace of life in the square has definitely slowed down, even though the weather is now more conducive to outdoor work. A man in a high vis jacket is wandering about on a distant roof. It’s unclear whether he’s admiring the view or doing any actual work. He’s standing immobile with his hands in his pockets as if in deep contemplation.

I wander outside and a man climbs into the cab of the digger and resumes work. Two women push a catering trolley noisily through the square. Sadly, the square is entirely devoid of parrots. A helicopter flies over the square, then circles it again, as if searching for something. A man cycles past on a borrowed electric bike. The man on the roof has finally departed, perhaps in search of greater knowledge. As am I, for it’s time to enter the Clarice Pears building for some poetic enlightenment.

To be continued…

First published: 18 June 2024

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