The icy, snowy slush which plagued Govan Cross yesterday has been trampled to a brown, gritty wetness and you can now walk along the pavement without fear of falling on your bumbleerie.
We've hit December and a Christmas rush is bubbling in the Govan X shopping centre, which is busy with lively shoppers.
I nick into Watson's on my way up the road and three young men, early twenties, are in the queue. Two are skinny weasel types, one of them wolfing down a pie and watching his pal intently as he recounts an event which happened last evening.
"We were jist sittin n nex' minute a pure missil comes flying in the windae, smashed it, jist missed the wean an a'."
Pie eater reaches into his poke for the next pie without taking his eyes off him.
The third man is a flaccid fella, pasty faced with a snub nose and small eyes. Dressed in dark grey trackies and trainers with a stripe, he sneers, "It's yer ain fault ya dafty. That's how they offered tae take ye hame. So they could see wherr ye lived." And here he breaks into a snuffling guffaw, "An then they comes back an smashes in yer windaes."
Hahahah and pie eater joins in, hahahah, "Pans in yer windae." Haha.