Ùrachadh mu Dheireadh 19/09/2018
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TIOTAL
'Jenny of the Pockets'
EXTERNAL ID
AB_LL_JENNIFER_MORAG_HENDERSON_02
ÀITE
Inbhir Nis
SIORRACHD/PARRAIST
INBHIR NIS: Inbhir Nis 's Am Bànath
DEIT
2009
LINN
2000an
CRUTHADAIR
Jennifer Morag Henderson
NEACH-FIOSRACHAIDH
Am Baile
AITHNEACHADH MAOINE
40978
KEYWORDS
claistinneach
cruthan-tìre litreachais

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'Jenny of the Pockets' by Jennifer Morag Henderson, from the anthology, 'Riptide'.

It was a hot day in Inverness. The sun drenched the city centre in light, saturating the buildings until they emitted a warm, weak glow of their own. The summer was reaching breaking point.

On the High Street, just up from the river, two young men stood at the edge of the pedestrian section of road, each with a fiddle in a case tucked under his arm. The High Street used to be the centre of town before most of the shops moved out to the nearby retail park. The young men were standing across the road from the Town House, next to McDonalds. Street furniture littered the pedestrian walkway - benches and spindly water-parched bushes, council-watered flower-pots and faux-Victorian street signs - while a few Invernessians weaved slowly around the obstacle course to peer in the windows at hot shop assistants. But most people did their shopping elsewhere these days, and used the town centre as a meeting-place. Knots of teenagers stood about, filling the street with yellow summer dresses, long legs and laughter. Parents took struggling babies out in pushchairs and sunhats, and tourists stared at everyone as if Inverness was a display in a theme park.

The two young men with the fiddles looked at the piper standing opposite McDonalds. His piping almost drowned out the sound of the guitarist in the close mid-way down the High Street, while around the corner in Inglis Street, at the other end of the pedestrianised section, a tiny girl in full Highland regalia enthralled the tourists by playing a clarsach almost as big as herself. There was no room in this part of town for any more buskers. The piper had told the two young men as much when he had stopped for a break, quickly and with a practiced hand counting out the coins from the open music case that lay at his feet, and sorting out the larger denominations to put in a safer place. 'Where are you from?' he had asked them, and when the lads had admitted to being from Cape Breton, he had broken into a smile. 'Everyone knows the best fiddlers come from Cape Breton. But listen, mate, I'm here all year round, you know. There's not much money in winter, and I have to make up for it in summer. I need the money to go to the RSAMD in Glasgow for their new Celtic music course, like... you could try round the corner, see if Judith's packed up her clarsach for the afternoon yet'. He shouldered his pipes and stepped back to his position at the wall, posing for photos with happy tourists, who shook his hand and left him another few coins. 'Good luck MacMasters!', he called over to Calum and Finlay, whose Scottish names marked them out as sons of ancestry-obsessed New Worlders.

Inverness used to be a town. It used to be a place where you could walk down the High Street and it would take all day because you had to stop and talk to everyone that you knew. It was made a city by the Queen for the millennium, and the small town grown large had not yet adjusted to its new status. It was as if there were two Invernesses, side by side, uneasily co-existing in the thundery air. One was full of new people: incomers who walked through anonymous city streets where they knew no one and shopped in chain stores; and one full of people who stopped to talk, who knew each others' parents and remembered what had happened to them all together when they were sixteen and first saw summers like this.

Old men who had forgotten the conventions they grew up in, but who had not adjusted to living in a city, lurked in shadows and old Inverneesian pub corners. But old women who forget conventions were suddenly out in the summer air, walking along the streets of the town every day where previously they would have been living an indoor life. Jenny, for example: she kept herself clean and neat, she caused no trouble - but she was always around, always walking through town. That was how you knew she was mad. That and the pockets: she was smartly dressed, with little black heeled shoes with a shiny gold buckle on the front, but all over her clothes she had sewn extra pockets. She was known in Inverness as Jenny of the Pockets.'

Dh'fhàs Jennifer Mòrag NicEanraig suas ann an Cùil Lodair agus tha i an-diugh a' fuireach ann an Inbhir Nis fhèin. Chaidh stòiridhean, rannan bàrdachd agus artaigilean aice fhoillseachadh ann an Alba is ann an Canada. 'S i an neach-deasachaidh aig an iris litreachais Ghàidhealach 'Random Acts of Writing' a tha air fhoillseachadh trì turais sa bhliadhna. Tha Jennifer cuideachd a' cur air dòigh pròiseactan sònraichte litreachais. Am measg nan leabhraichean aice air am foillseachadh bho chionn ghoirid tha:

- aiste eachdraidh-beatha air an t-snaigheadair Alasdair Rothach agus cuideachd pìos bàrdachd air a spreagadh le oibrichean Rothaich - ri fhaicinn san taisbeanadh 'Reflections' agus an iris na chois aig Taigh-tasgaidh agus Gailearaidh Ealain Inbhir Nis (2008).

- 'Cacerolazo' san iris 'Random Acts of Writing' magazine, Àmh 11. 'S e seo sgeulachd ghoirid mu chàs airigid Argentina an 2001, cuspair a ghabh Jennifer ùidh ann an toiseach nuair a bha i a' dèanamh agallamhan airson a prògram rèidio air stèisean Canadianach CKDU-FM.

- 'Jenny of the Pockets', sgeulachd ghoirid ann an 'Riptide: New Writing from the Highlands & Islands' (2007).

Tha ceumnachadh aig Jennifer ann an Cànan Beurla agus Sòisealachd o Oilthigh Ghlaschu agus àrd-cheumnachadh ann an Sòisealachd agus Eòlas Chinne-daoine o Oilthigh Dhalhousie, Alba Nuadh, Canada. Tha i cuideachd a' bruidhinn Fraingeis gu fileanta. Tha i air obair a dhèanamh ann am foillseachadh agus ann an diofar taobh eile de mhalairt nan leabhraichean, nam measg ann am foillseachadh, reic leabhraichean, stiùireadh bùth-leabhraichean agus ruith leabhar-lainn.

Airson stiùireadh mu bhith a’ cleachdadh ìomhaighean agus susbaint eile, faicibh duilleag ‘Na Cumhaichean air Fad.’
’S e companaidh cuibhrichte fo bharantas clàraichte ann an Alba Àir. SC407011 agus carthannas clàraichte Albannach Àir. SC042593 a th’ ann an High Life na Gàidhealtachd.
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'Jenny of the Pockets'

INBHIR NIS: Inbhir Nis 's Am Bànath

2000an

claistinneach; cruthan-tìre litreachais

Am Baile

Literary Landscapes: Jennifer Morag Henderson

'Jenny of the Pockets' by Jennifer Morag Henderson, from the anthology, 'Riptide'.<br /> <br /> It was a hot day in Inverness. The sun drenched the city centre in light, saturating the buildings until they emitted a warm, weak glow of their own. The summer was reaching breaking point.<br /> <br /> On the High Street, just up from the river, two young men stood at the edge of the pedestrian section of road, each with a fiddle in a case tucked under his arm. The High Street used to be the centre of town before most of the shops moved out to the nearby retail park. The young men were standing across the road from the Town House, next to McDonalds. Street furniture littered the pedestrian walkway - benches and spindly water-parched bushes, council-watered flower-pots and faux-Victorian street signs - while a few Invernessians weaved slowly around the obstacle course to peer in the windows at hot shop assistants. But most people did their shopping elsewhere these days, and used the town centre as a meeting-place. Knots of teenagers stood about, filling the street with yellow summer dresses, long legs and laughter. Parents took struggling babies out in pushchairs and sunhats, and tourists stared at everyone as if Inverness was a display in a theme park.<br /> <br /> The two young men with the fiddles looked at the piper standing opposite McDonalds. His piping almost drowned out the sound of the guitarist in the close mid-way down the High Street, while around the corner in Inglis Street, at the other end of the pedestrianised section, a tiny girl in full Highland regalia enthralled the tourists by playing a clarsach almost as big as herself. There was no room in this part of town for any more buskers. The piper had told the two young men as much when he had stopped for a break, quickly and with a practiced hand counting out the coins from the open music case that lay at his feet, and sorting out the larger denominations to put in a safer place. 'Where are you from?' he had asked them, and when the lads had admitted to being from Cape Breton, he had broken into a smile. 'Everyone knows the best fiddlers come from Cape Breton. But listen, mate, I'm here all year round, you know. There's not much money in winter, and I have to make up for it in summer. I need the money to go to the RSAMD in Glasgow for their new Celtic music course, like... you could try round the corner, see if Judith's packed up her clarsach for the afternoon yet'. He shouldered his pipes and stepped back to his position at the wall, posing for photos with happy tourists, who shook his hand and left him another few coins. 'Good luck MacMasters!', he called over to Calum and Finlay, whose Scottish names marked them out as sons of ancestry-obsessed New Worlders. <br /> <br /> Inverness used to be a town. It used to be a place where you could walk down the High Street and it would take all day because you had to stop and talk to everyone that you knew. It was made a city by the Queen for the millennium, and the small town grown large had not yet adjusted to its new status. It was as if there were two Invernesses, side by side, uneasily co-existing in the thundery air. One was full of new people: incomers who walked through anonymous city streets where they knew no one and shopped in chain stores; and one full of people who stopped to talk, who knew each others' parents and remembered what had happened to them all together when they were sixteen and first saw summers like this.<br /> <br /> Old men who had forgotten the conventions they grew up in, but who had not adjusted to living in a city, lurked in shadows and old Inverneesian pub corners. But old women who forget conventions were suddenly out in the summer air, walking along the streets of the town every day where previously they would have been living an indoor life. Jenny, for example: she kept herself clean and neat, she caused no trouble - but she was always around, always walking through town. That was how you knew she was mad. That and the pockets: she was smartly dressed, with little black heeled shoes with a shiny gold buckle on the front, but all over her clothes she had sewn extra pockets. She was known in Inverness as Jenny of the Pockets.' <br /> <br /> Dh'fhàs Jennifer Mòrag NicEanraig suas ann an Cùil Lodair agus tha i an-diugh a' fuireach ann an Inbhir Nis fhèin. Chaidh stòiridhean, rannan bàrdachd agus artaigilean aice fhoillseachadh ann an Alba is ann an Canada. 'S i an neach-deasachaidh aig an iris litreachais Ghàidhealach 'Random Acts of Writing' a tha air fhoillseachadh trì turais sa bhliadhna. Tha Jennifer cuideachd a' cur air dòigh pròiseactan sònraichte litreachais. Am measg nan leabhraichean aice air am foillseachadh bho chionn ghoirid tha: <br /> <br /> - aiste eachdraidh-beatha air an t-snaigheadair Alasdair Rothach agus cuideachd pìos bàrdachd air a spreagadh le oibrichean Rothaich - ri fhaicinn san taisbeanadh 'Reflections' agus an iris na chois aig Taigh-tasgaidh agus Gailearaidh Ealain Inbhir Nis (2008).<br /> <br /> - 'Cacerolazo' san iris 'Random Acts of Writing' magazine, Àmh 11. 'S e seo sgeulachd ghoirid mu chàs airigid Argentina an 2001, cuspair a ghabh Jennifer ùidh ann an toiseach nuair a bha i a' dèanamh agallamhan airson a prògram rèidio air stèisean Canadianach CKDU-FM.<br /> <br /> - 'Jenny of the Pockets', sgeulachd ghoirid ann an 'Riptide: New Writing from the Highlands & Islands' (2007).<br /> <br /> Tha ceumnachadh aig Jennifer ann an Cànan Beurla agus Sòisealachd o Oilthigh Ghlaschu agus àrd-cheumnachadh ann an Sòisealachd agus Eòlas Chinne-daoine o Oilthigh Dhalhousie, Alba Nuadh, Canada. Tha i cuideachd a' bruidhinn Fraingeis gu fileanta. Tha i air obair a dhèanamh ann am foillseachadh agus ann an diofar taobh eile de mhalairt nan leabhraichean, nam measg ann am foillseachadh, reic leabhraichean, stiùireadh bùth-leabhraichean agus ruith leabhar-lainn.