The gulls, like ghosts, they follow the street grid as dawn breaks across the city. It's Christmas day and the streets are touched by morning frost and are littered with detritus of the previous night’s festivities. Enthralled by this perfect solitude, stillness against the blinding brilliance of sun on ice. Sullied by none, I am its chosen trespasser. I walk past George square and follow St Vincent Street to its crest. Looking westwards and down I see another shuffling on the slippery path towards the Clyde, occasionally losing their footing, their arms flailing briefly, before finding their balance again; only to repeat the cycle moments later.
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