The rhythmic movement had caught my eye, as feet tapped out a rhythm and a bow gyrated across a violins body, whilst fingers moved so fast over strings. It appeared as if the busker’s whole body was moving to a rhythm.

In front of him a violin case lay open: of his music I could hear nothing.

Two differing worlds coexisting, his need to attend the Glasgow conservatory and study Celtic music, whilst I had a desire for hot coffee, fortunately for me thick plate glass divided us. The busker and the writer.