It was a likely place to sell a jacket in; for the dealers in second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally speaking, on the look-out for customers at their shop doors. View in context Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door,...
Close by, there also stood a statue of be-knickered plough-boy poet Bobby Burns in a tam-o’-shanter, holding a mountain daisy like a potato chip. I didn’t realize then that public art with few exceptions is doomed to fail because art and consensus mix as poorly as the well-...