February 10, 2007

It’s a cold, dreary day. There’s a cold breeze slowly pushing around the uniform layer of grey clouds above. I’m walking through George Square, looking up at Sir Walter Scott standing atop his column. I notice that nobody looks up; the man is kept well out of sight. The gulls and pigeons don’t understand what they’re standing on. I wonder how many people have read any of his work — I know I haven’t. But I will.

I’m minding my own business as I walk away from here, ruminating over how few people would know who the name of the person the statue represents, how few would have read his work. So few people know who that man was that they walk past every day.

On Bath Street I walk past a woman who I swear was Moira Stewart. Despite my idealistic stance regarding which of these two people should demand more of my thoughts, I feel that little flush of excitement we all feel when we see any C-list celebrity walking the same streets as we do. Even so, nobody looks. Nobody notices.

Ground level or atop a column, nobody notices. Nobody pays attention. To most people, the characters around us are less important than that breeze pushing the clouds around.


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