We are all roasted. Sweltering, sweating, everyone stripped down to the bare essentials. Well, kind of. What I mean is, everybody's in shorts and simmits, belly tops and right off the shooder numbers.
The clammy heat of Govan Cross is the same whether you're inside or outside the shops.
I queue up with the rest at the Farmfoods checkout with our boxes of ice lollies. 3 White's Lemonades for a pound.
"Oh, help, help, ma purse," the older lady in front of me whispers in quiet agitation. She has her messages on the belt and starts to lift the bread, box of Tetley, the links and the frozen square slice back off and into her basket. "Ah cannae find ma purse," she says as she rakes through her handbag. "It's a' black. That's the problem. Ah cannae see it," and her silent panic and fingers swollen with arthritis make it difficult for her to find what is in her bags.
"Take your time," says I, as I balance her basket and she suddenly comes across it and breathes a heavy sigh of relief in the oppressive, evil heat of the day.