A darkening winter's evening sees me walking briskly along Govan Road. The air is cold but dry and there's a moon rising, illuminating low clouds in a pale blue light.
Now and again I turn to cast a glance over my shoulder, just to keep an eye on who's about. Good practice, as many will agree.
I look around and as I scan the tenements on the other side of the road, my attention is caught by a lighted first floor window. The walls of the room are painted an underwater, mariney green and from the centre of the ceiling is suspended a single bare lightbulb.
This is an unusually long room with two sets of windows set in the dark stone and I just have to stop for a moment to watch a wee boy, aged about 9, wearing only a pair of shorts, who is bouncing up and down, backwards and forwards on a bed. Jumping along to the end, he turns and jumps back again.
I can't see the bed of course, can just see him, up and down, head back, lost in his own imagination, trampoline champion of the world.
And watching brings a thrill of childhood games, bouncing on beds with creaky springs, hide and seek inside dark walnut wardrobes and in den one two three. And this keeps me smiling as I hurry on into the night.