Past 3 o'clock, just, and the sky has fallen into murky darkness. The street lights are glowing in the gloom and slanting rain stings hands and faces. Raw cold air whooshes round Govan Cross and everyone is hurrying to get inside, heads down, hands thrust in pockets.
There's plenty of heat and light in the shopping centre and one young man has stripped to his t-shirt to display a newly etched tattoo the length of his arm, all swirling blues, blacks and reds.
His pal admires it.
"Aye, Ah'm dead chuffed wae it. Goat it at ra new wee shoap'ats opened."
"Shaw St, it wiz on'y thirty quid - cuz a know the guy, ma pal n that, done me a wee deal. Good eh?"
"Aye, that looks great," says a dyed blonde admiringly.
"Fur ma Christmas, heh. Treated masel'."