You know when you pass somewhere all the time and then one day you get to it and something is different about it, but you can't think what. That's what is happening to me just now. The scene is the same, and yet, altogether different. I can see the funnels of the Waverley, but can I see more than usual? As I approach the gates to the graving docks on Stag Street, I realise that the clearing we've been hearing about is well underway.
A truck is parked on the slope and I slip through and ask the workies what's getting made.
"We don't know," says one, too quickly. I think they've been told to say that.
"How's it looking so different?" I ask, and they explain it's the trees and shrubbery that's gone, cleared and piled up for shredding.
"Gives ye a nice clear view a Glesga," he smiles, "Memories?" he enquires. "We've had ebdy in here, a' lookin' aboot, a' sen'imen'al. Aaaww, that's wherr we sat n that's wherr the Govan Team sat."
I take a few snaps and continue on my path.