Apologies for no photos since ma camera got tea-leafed
A clown dressed in a lime green romper suit with yellow spots and a mass of frizzy green hair is mooching about Govan X. It's shaking a red bucket up and down, looking for money for comic relief and then settles into a serious conversation with a chap at the bus stop. I nick by him, heading over the road towards the Bank of Scotland. Parked at right angles to the kerb sits a police car and an ambulance. A couple of polis stand above a middle aged man who is lying face down on the ground in the recovery position. Someone has very kindly put an old brown velvet scatter cushion under his head. There's no way past on the pavement, so I swerve back onto the other side of the road and hurry on my way to the bakers.
The streets are busy today, lots of pedestrians walking to and from the Cross. The weather is a bit blowy, and cold - typical March but quite pleasant. As I approach the corner of Shaw Street, the police walk briskly along the other side of the road; a tall man and a stocky wee woman, who look like they mean business. They head straight for Richards pub, push open the door and are swallowed into the den.
Inside Watsons it's warm and homely with a delicious array of cakes and icing buns on display. It's well into dinner time but still busy and they're short of hot stuff now. Plenty of pies left, but only one sausage roll.
Two schoolgirls are in the queue with their noses smeared red. "Ye's collectin fur rid nose? Here ye go," says an elderly man and he pushes a wee bundle of coins into one girl's hand. They look a bit bewildered and shy at the attention that is turned on them.
The shop has filled up with customers and the queue is stretching out of the door and down Shaw Street. I gather up my pies, the last sausage roll, coconut icing buns and apple round and step out into a squally shower.
The police are just emerging from Richards at the same time, on their own, no arrests. They march off down to Govan Cross, shoulders back, creating a presence.