A little pickup truck with a tatty wee speed boat atop a trailer is parked on Clydebrae Street. A man, in his fifties, trim with dark receding hair is standing in the cabin, painting it with a mini roller and white gloss paint. A young guy, very trendy in an Eastern European style - tight jeans and t-shirt, shiny shoes - is briskly brushing the royal blue hull.
"Where you goin' sailing?" I enquire.
The older man carries on painting after flicking his eyes up to look at me quickly and away again.
The younger makes a sound like, "Nnnyeah," and then continues, "We perhaps go to, eh, put in, eh, sea, hah, we 'ope."
My companion, His Lordship, is very interested in maritime vessels and puts in a question or two regarding horsepower and suchlike.
The fella answers as best as his command of English will allow.
The older man's eyes flick up and down a few more times, but his face is stern and unexpressive.
"You goin' to launch it over there?" I ask, pointing to the Stag St. ferry.
"Ha ha!" he laughs, "Hokay, nnnyeah, will do."