Some people just can't help playing to an audience, even if one isn't there, well, unless two pals and me leaning against the pawn shop window counts.
The star of the show is tall and slim, hair pulled into a high ponytail which she swings from side to side as she performs. She is fashionable and smart, pristine white tracksuit with pink stripe down the outside leg with matching trainers. Her parka jacket is pulled tight at her waist and she rests her hand on her designer pram, occasionally rocking it as she holds court.
"He's moved in noo," she's saying, "It's a great wee flat, plenty room and a shared kitchen so it's quite good. You've got company if ye wantit"
The audience nods, aw, that's good. Aye.
The girl leans back and swishes her hair, casts her eyes up to the canopy of the Govan Cross shops and back down, then looks left and right to check who's on the street.
"No bad, the other wans in it. He's gettin oan fine wi them."
Aw, that's good.
"He says to me he's just tellin them he's got hepatitis n Ah think they'll a' be fine aboot it."
Och well, that's good.