I will show you fear in a handful of dust

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It's just a strange and not so curious fact. Just one of those things, really. Like the time, not so long ago, I seemed to bump into Stephen Pastel in Tinderbox everysingleday for a fortnight. When it had the arts and crafts bit at the back, mind? He would see the yellow fanboy badge on the lapel of my black jacket and smirk and bow his head. A modest salute, of sorts. More recently, I have often seen Paul Buchanan on the Dumbarton Road. Let's just say he stands out from the crowd. For he is not grey or beaten down by poverty, weather or the drink. He is not being thrown out of a bookies for declaring institutional foul play or sucking on a woodbine for his dear shortened life outside the gee-gees friendly Victoria Bar. He has managed to avoid the West coast cracks in the pavements, so-tae-speak, despite having a schedule for album release dates that would test the patience of the most Holy and cause O Beng to dance on the graves of even the most fallen. Although, it is true, his patterned, railwayed face does tell many stories. Life has been loved and lived in a sequence of shifts. For his long tan raincoat swaggers after him, like an opulent bridal train, with an air of self-belief in daring to defy the local climate. A scarf, that last time, was very Rupert the Bear. You know, one of these times I really will dare approach him and beg, in my best Sunday afternoon accent, 'Paul, please, when might we hear a studio version of this song?'. And he will reply, politely I should think, 'When it is good and ready, son'. And he may, if graceful, bow a little, strike a light, and walk on with soulful intent and deep purpose. I cannot, cannot, wait.
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The Blue Nile - 'Runaround Girl' (live) (4.54)
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