CAGED JAGUAR, FARADAY STREET. 7.35AM
Manchester is unfairly famed for its rain. If it’s raining in Manchester, then somewhere else along the west of Britain is also getting it, and I’d rather this new, soft water than drought and lime. It’s not easy to photograph in though. The camera drips miserably and the lens needs constant attention.
This morning my hood was up and my chilled hands were thrust deep into dampened pockets. A bin lorry, or waste re-cycling vehicle, as it’s now known, pulled up beside me and the driver pushed his head through the open side window. Orange, spinning lights swept across our faces.
“What you taking photos of mate?”
” Just the area..”
“Shit isn’t it?”
“It has its own beauty” I replied.
“Well, at least you’ve got a number on your coat, mate” he said, and drove off.
I looked down to see a small, white sticker proclaiming “The Roaring Twenties” on my chest, acquired from a weekend visit to a stately home. And then, round the corner, I found a Jaguar in a cage.
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