Having followed tram-lines along cobble-****** roads of marine industry, I am reminded of the smell of cold meat and the sound of an early siren, which beckons me to dilapidated buildings and disused railway tunnels.
There is a loud sound when car headlamps are dropped from a height onto pornographic concrete.
All that you have to do is to go to the dairy and reach over the counter, and you will find that a jubilee leaves indelible evidence to scrutinising faces and invites unwelcomed interrogations.
Let us walk up this crescent and kick leaves into puddles of Autumnal darkness.
The number five will always trigger the musky scent of cats and the sound of diesel locomotives, whilst uncertainty and aggression seek to establish a sense of equilibrium amidst social isolation.
Having said this, I will leave you with one final admonition: never forget the power of a steak pie from the butchers shop.
This is the essence of Partick.