Glasgow is a living beast of sandstone and grit, of smart-mouthed sideways humour, of traffic cones as modern art and soaring grandeur and dear, dear green places, of glittery puddles reflecting Victorian statues – men, all men, and one torn-faced queen – of deer grazing by gravestones, of the Molendinar Burn and a gentle monk named Mungo, of chewing gum, pizza boxes, tumbled ginger bottles, multicoloured faces and fluttering doos. Pigeons. Hunners of them. It is a place that has welcomed her to its bosom as a dancer would drag you into a ceilidh, sweat-drenched, barely pausing for breath.