I’VE been reading a lot of non-fiction books recently. Journalists going off around the world, trying to get to the bottom of some mystery by interviewing all sorts of weird and wonderful people, often finding themselves in strange, unusual and sometimes dangerous situations.

It’s got me thinking that I’d love to write a book in this style. But what topic would I write it on? I think I’d quite like to do a search for the eponymous Simmy of “Simmys Removals”.

There used to be signs for the company dotted all around the East End of Glasgow. They’d be made of old bits of wood or cardboard and have “Simmys Removals” hand painted on to them with their phone number. They’d be cable tied to traffic lights, road signs, streetlights and fences. Sometimes they looked brand new, the paint looked as if it had only just dried moments before you saw it, and sometimes they’d be weathered, peeling and cracking. You would never see them being put up however. I remember I’d say to my granda whenever we drove by one of the signs, “Who’s Simmy?” to which he’d reply, “I’ve nae idea, son.”

For years, these signs became part of the ecosystem that made up the East End. Always there, around every corner, begging you to phone them while you stopped at a red light. Then, practically overnight, they vanished. I haven’t seen one in the wild for at least a few years now. The premise of the book I’d write on Simmys Removals would be me searching for an original sign and also hunting for the man behind them.

I don’t know anyone who’s ever used them. One person on Twitter tells me they phoned once looking for a quote. They were greeted by a surprised woman on the other end, presumably Mrs Simmy. She then shouted, “SIMMY! PHONE!” so loud that they were left with a ringing in their ear for a week. Simmy then spoke down the line, apparently sounding suspicious. When asked if he could do a removal on a certain date, he said “Naw”, and that was that.

I start off my journey by looking for any signs that remain on the streets. There was a few on Stepps Road, Springboig Road as well, if I remember correctly. I scour the fences and lampposts but they’re all long gone. I enlist the help of my granda and we go hunting for them. Through Springboig, Shettleston, Carntyne, Riddrie and Dennistoun. Nothing. The only proof they were ever there at all is a few grainy pictures on Google and vague memories locked away in people’s heads. No one can remember exactly where the signs were. Were they simply a figment of our collective imaginations? I realise I’ve never seen a Simmys Removals van on the road. I start to question my own sanity as I return home with nothing to show from my quest.

Then I receive a mysterious phone call from a withheld number. “Hello,” I say down the line. I can hear nothing but silence. “Hello,” I say again louder this time. Finally, a gruff voice speaks to me. “I hear yer lookin fur a sign, pal?” it says.

“Aye, how dae you know?” I reply.

“Aw, I saw ye. Hunting aboot the schemes, looking fur a sign that belongs tae a certain removals company.”

“Aye, I’m wanting wan ae their signs. You any idea where I could find wan?”

“I know where ye can get wan. Meet me up Hogganfield Loch. The night. 11 o’clock.”

“Hing oan, how did you get ma number?”

The mystery caller hangs up.

I wonder if it’s a good idea to be going to meet a strange man who phoned me out of the blue but before I know it I’m standing shivering in the car park. It’s pitch black. I haven’t heard back from the man who phoned me since he hung up, not even a reply to my text asking, “Is this a wind up?”

As it hits half 11, I get ready to head home dejected when a hooded figure, all dressed in black, appears in the distance. He’s swinging a briefcase.

“Awrite,” I say.

“This is it,” he says, lying the briefcase on the bonnet of my motor. “This is the last Simmys Removals sign in existence.”

“How did ye find this?”

His face remains hidden under his hood. He doesn’t answer me. He unclicks the latches on the briefcase. He lifts the lid.

There it is. Resting in the briefcase is the very last Simmys Removals sign on Earth. It’s a piece of plywood, worn and splintered around the edges, with the company name lovingly painted on by the man himself. It’s beautiful. I swear I can hear a chorus of angels singing as I stroke it.

“This is amazing,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the sign. “How did ye get it? Hawd oan. Are you... him? Are you Simmy?”

When I look up, he’s gone. Vanishing away into the darkness. The search for Simmy goes on.