James Morton plants a mug on the desk and produces a hardback book from his schoolboy satchel. On the surface of a Starbucks table on Byres Road, a miniature James peers skywards in Fair Isle tank top, moulding a piece of dough.
The same bespectacled eyes look back from above a steaming coffee. If it wasn’t for the tome bearing his name beside him, the 22-year-old would pass for an orthodox West Ender. Arriving on his vintage bike — “I built it myself” — in a dark blazer and crisp shirt, he blends almost unnoticed into the hub of students he inhabits.
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