Glasgow, December 1976

There's a wee boy running through the front gates of the Botanic Gardens, while soft snow cloaks the West End of Glasgow in pure whiteness. Wrapped in his warm school coat, Hillhead scarf and wooly blue gloves, the lad is off like a shot. He runs faster as he nears Kibble Palace, his face shining in the cold winter air, and opens the old creaky door to the tropical paradise inside. He leans over the edge of the giant pond, marvelling at the darting goldfish shimmering under the water, not really comprehending the dichotomy between the winter wonderland and this balmy oasis. He gazes around, entranced by the beauty of the displaced jungle in the heart of Glasgow. He's only got a few desultory moments to embrace it all before he has to catch the Number 8 bus outside Asda's to Maryhill. He can't be late for his last piano lesson of the year; nor can he forget his excitement about Christmas with his grandparents in Clydebank. The brightly coloured lights along Dumbarton Rd. - this will be the Christmas of all Christmases, but he lingers at the edge of the pond, allowing the fragrant air to envelop him one last time...

Happy Christmas.