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There aren't too many hymns of praise to Glasgow ("the dear green place"), but this one has humour, acute social observation, and, ultimately, some resolution, and hope.
This is no misery memoir: misfortunes are bearable, setbacks can be overcome, and even the generational nagging of older relatives (fleeing from pogrom or wars) who did not have the good fortune to grow up in Scotland can be accepted in the end. I am sure Jericho did not sleep alone forever, but Bermant has left us in suspense.
As ever, David Monteath narrates flawlessly, though perhaps I am not an informed critic of English accents outwith the South East.
This is a funny, moving, gentle story about growing up in Scotland, at a specific time, and in a small religious/ethnic community adapting rapidly to Scottishness.
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