It's the summer holidays. A wee boy kicking about the streets approaches our open door and calls in to ask if we've got any ginger bottles.
He's in luck and as he waits for them to be brought out I look at his slight figure in the doorway; the sun behind him, his short ruffled hair, baggy tee-shirt, shorts, scruffy sandshoes, his face in shadow, eyes darting about from side to side.
And the background music on the radio is the voice of Louis Armstrong crooning, "And I think to myself . . . what a wonderful world".
The wee boy snatches the glass bottles and speeds off and I feel like we could just as easily have been in 1971 as 2011.
Govan's in a bit of a time warp, ya know?
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