On the Riverbank

And so we bask in a glorious Indian Summer.

Me and his lordship promenade by the riverside; the early evening sun in the warm cloudy sky is still radiating heat and casting rays that shimmer on the surface of the chocolate coloured Clyde.

We hang over the railings, watching the river roll on by. It's pretty empty, my companion observes, not like the Thames, which has many a boat chugging over it.

Across on the other bank, the pinnacles of the new Museum of Transport rise high.

I defend Glasgow's neglect of the watter, telling him, yeah, well, it's gonny get a lot busier when the ferry's back on taking us over to the museum. Just at that, a speedy wee dinghy zooms up towards the city, skiffing the surface. See.

A small group of 'thirty-something' ladies pass us by and take up a spot on the grassy embankment. They are each laden with bottles-a-plenty and once settled begin screwing off lids and popping corks for a late summer soiree.

A big boattlaIrn-Bru explodes with a fizzing, foaming and hissing. The lady puts it firmly on the ground, holding it by the neck and slowly tightening the lid again.

"It's phe - no - men - al. Get - bi - zzzzy with the fi -zzzzy" she gurgles, mixing her drinks advertisements.

We continue our walk, passing through the urban landscape, trees and shrubbery in full leaf, the grass a vibrant green, the white pebbledash houses and flats sitting prettily inbetween. Got to be the best spot in the whole of Glasgow to live.

At the party, a couple of the ladies are really getting down to business mixing cocktails. An African girl, tangly hair highlighted with silver, introduces the rest to a new and exotic recipe, as she pours liquids from one bottle to another and shakes them vigorously.

All are lively, laughing and joking, except one, who is sitting on the wall applying a roll-on deodorant under her oxters.
"Aye, ye've jist got t' deal wi' it when ye get t' ma age" she says resignedly to her pal who nods absently, awaiting her turn to slug from the bottle.