I'm last in the queue in Greggs at Govan Cross. Customers are buying hot sausage rolls and bread and so on for breakfast. The door pushes open behind me and someone comes in, but I don't bother looking round. Suddenly, I'm aware of a woman's face looking closely into mine.
"Nice foundation," says she.
"What did she say?" I think and feel a bit self-conscious. "Did I forget to blend?"
She's jaunty, but with the fragility of one addled by drink. She screws her face up in a grin and shrugs her shoulders.
"Nice," she says again.
She pushes by me and past the man in front to get into the chill cabinet. Looking around at us, she smilingly takes a carton of milk and a packet of sandwiches. Then about turn and out of the shop with a light-hearted cheerio.
I watch her go out and look at the shop assistants. They've paid her no heed. Did they see her? Does she do this every morning? Does she have an account here? Nah, not in a big chain like Greggs.
When I come out, she's standing at the end of the row of shops with a street singer who often serenades us at Govan Cross. He's slurping the milk down and she's tearing wee bits off her piece, lost in thought and a bit shaky and trembly. He wipes his mouth and starts up an unmelodic song to welcome another spring day.