Born in Edinburgh in 1961 and brought up in Glasgow, Jackie Kay is a poet, playwright and novelist. Her first book of poetry, The Adoption Papers, earned her the 1991 Eric Gregory award, and her debut novel, Trumpet, won the 1998 Guardian fiction prize. Since then she has published more than 20 books, including the memoir Red Dust Road, which won the Scottish book of the year award. From 2016 to 2021, Kay was the third modern Makar, the national poet for Scotland; she has been appointed an MBE and CBE, as well as being a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. She lives in Manchester and is professor of creative writing at the University of Salford. Her latest collection, Selected Poems 1991-2026, is published by Picador this week.

Mull is the second largest island in the Inner Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland. I first went when I was four, and when we arrived off the boat the local people all gathered around us because they hadn’t seen people our colour before. We had the most extraordinary holiday in a wee croft in Croig, and we had the famous Mull cheddar, which we ate as if it was fudge. I recently returned to Mull with my son, and we found the old croft that I’d stayed in. The land had barely changed: the ruggedness of the hills, the sea, the look of the place. But Mull itself had changed massively: a lot of the crofts are now gourmet restaurants. It’s amazing to have this mix of food, beauty, hills, history, geology, and midges.

I ate here yesterday – it’s my favourite restaurant in Glasgow. The head chef, Rosie Healey, has just announced she’s going to be stepping down, which is really sad to me. Now that my mum and dad and brother are all dead, I find that going to Gloriosa is a kind of home. It’s like a big urban living-room. The menu is lovely: it’s quite simple, but every single thing is done with such care, and it’s delicious. I had beetroot, fennel and pecorino, followed by probably the best roast chicken you’ll have, with a friendly little jug of wine that feels like you’re not drinking too much for the day. You feel cared for but you don’t feel fussed over: I think that’s the secret to a really wonderful restaurant. 

I like nothing better than making my Sunday roast with this playing in the background. It’s presented by Alyn Shipton, and it’s produced from Glasgow, so you send requests to their PO box. You’re likely to come across old favourites – Blossom Dearie or Ella Fitzgerald or Carmen McRae – but also completely new people, and I love that mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar. It seems really comforting. The other day they did a Black history special programme, and it was really fantastic. It sends you down a path where you think: “Oh, I’m going to find out a bit more about that person.” I really hope we don’t lose these things when the BBC keeps changing. It makes my Sunday. 

This made me think of lots of different things simultaneously. It’s a profound meditation on loss and suicide: her father and her sister both took their own lives, 12 years apart. Miriam Toews is an exciting and particular talent – one of those writers who’s impossible to imitate. The silences in the book are as effective as those in a piece of jazz or classical music. In a memoir, I’m always looking for tone, tense and time – the three T’s – and she gets the tone of it exactly right, never veering into self-pity. It made me feel alive: it electrified and comforted me. I’m also reading Prodigal by Kayo Chingonyi, which deals with the death of both of his parents through Aids, his loss of contact with his family, and the subsequent shame he felt. It’s extraordinary.

Last month I saw a live version of this Scottish comedy show, which is to air its eighth series on television next year. You’d think that theatre in a venue that takes 10,000 people wouldn’t be possible, but there were huge screens and live music, so it gave a real sense of spectacle. It’s about two characters who always host these ghastly neighbours, and they think about going around Scotland in a caravan. Their neighbours, who rely on them, are really shocked, and have to look at what their life would be like if they didn’t have that community. It takes quite serious themes of home and prejudice and acceptance in suburban Glasgow, but it does it in a really light way. 

On that note, I think Scottish theatre is in rude health: apart from seeing the wonderful Prime of Miss Jean Brodie at the Lyceum, I’ve seen a lot of amazing shows at the Citizens theatre, and at the Out in the Hills festival in Pitlochry, the first gay festival in Scotland. It feels like Scotland’s having a real cultural moment. 

Interview by Kathryn Bromwich