"It' not a hamster, it's a rat!" (copyright J.Cleese Esq). But not for long I fear.
Calmly strolling across four lanes of rush-hour traffic on one of Glasgow's busiest bridges, this badly photographed rodent displayed a truly alarming degree of misplaced confidence.
Or was he ontop of his game? Was this sport? I had to admire the deft way he allowed tyres to skim past his tail within millimeters, yet neither his composure or fur was ruffled. This was the sort of elan I would wish to display in a F6 breaking sea. But don't.
I received more stares than ratty. Dressed in my winter running kit (lycra tights & top, not nice) with rucksack, standing in the road, brandishing a phone. Towards a road-rat.
I'd like to think he does this every day. A ratty toreador in a Corrida with the bull-bars and rubber of Glasgow's four-wheeled opponents. I'd like to think he'll be there tomorrow, doing his death-dance.
But by now I suspect he's a stain on the tarmac.