Me and the Islay Bird step over the door and into a dank, misty evening. She grips my hand and chatters constantly as we walk briskly to Govan Cross.
"I'm scared," says she. "Don't be," says I with a giggle, "nothing to be scared of in Govan."
"It's dark," she says, "What's that in there?" and we look through the open door of a workshop in the big shed. "It's where they make nice tables and chairs and cabinets and stuff like that," I reply, "See the men working."
We move on and pass the lights of the Riverside Club where mums, dads and children are making their way to the door.
Down through the Riverside scheme and along the riverbank we go.
"Look Islay Bird," I say, "somebody's got their Christmas lights up and we've just had St. Andrew's Night."
She is more forgiving than me and whoops at the twinkling colours and the tree.
"Are there spooky things down here?" she says, gripping my hand tightly and peeping behind her.
"Not at all!" I say with bravado, whilst casting a quick glance around. "C'mon we'll sing a song," and at that she launches into a Hallowe'en ditty.
I look down at this lightly skipping, dancing child and a memory glimmers of my own walks along Govan streets, hand in hand with an elder. Nice how the years roll round.
"Take a deep breath, Bird, and breathe in Govan," and we both sook the air deep into our lungs.
We turn up Water Row and make for the lights.
Govan's Christmas tree has been erected and awaits the grand switch-on. Camouflaged in the mirk, I have to point it out to the Bird. "Santa's fairies are coming to light it up soon. We'll come and see it."