ANCOATS, MANCHESTER 5.24AM
The decision as to where I will photograph at dawn is often taken the moment I turn the ignition in my car. A flock of choices swirl around my head, as if a strong breeze has caught a pile of
carefully folded orders, and I must somehow pluck one out of the air.
Once I’ve grasped my instructions, I’m aware and accept that I’ve set off on a particular path of fate, and that what I encounter that morning could have been entirely different, and sometimes I even imagine a parallel world where I’m in a different part of the city, encountering some other series of coincidences. I once saw a social media meme in which someone said “I hope my parallel universe self is doing ok.” I can relate to that.
The last time I was out, I was weighing up whether to go to Cheetham Hill, to Holt Town or to the old retail park on Great Ancoats Street, on which planning permission has recently been granted for some new offices and a small park. As the engine fired into life, I chose the latter, not least because I sensed the sky was going to be dramatic that morning, and the sun rises just to the east of the area.
It was still dark when I parked and stepped onto the street. Across the road was the ‘world famous’ Piccadilly Club, a massage parlour, its bright orange signs proudly announcing its existence. A young man emerged uneasily from the doorway and stood for a while, perhaps trying to summon a cab and absorb his shame. Another lad joined him, who after a few minutes came over to me to ask if I was a taxi driver.
“Do I look like a taxi driver?” I asked.
“I guess not,” he said “But then what does one look like?”
He walked back to his friend, and soon they were swallowed up into a shiny clean Uber driven by a man wearing a taqiyah. As the vehicle moved off, I noticed that just up the street was a blue sleeping bag lying diagonally across the pavement, so people would have to step over it. The bag twitched as a leg was raised, indicating someone was still asleep inside.
I made my way onto Redhill Street, and the bridge across the Rochdale Canal. Here I set up my tripod. After I’d made a few exposures, I heard someone come up the steps behind me, and turned quickly to see a man wearing a bucket hat and tracksuit, a shamrock on the breastpocket. He was carrying a can of lager.
“What’s this mate?” He asked sharply. A local accent, friendly enough.
“I’m just taking a picture” I replied. His mood changed within seconds.
“Are you photographing me?” He shouted. I wasn’t.
Get that f**ing camera out of my face or I’ll slap you. I’m not a nobody. Got connections.”
I moved the camera and calmly reassured him I meant no harm, all the time watching his hands in case he went for me. He carried on cursing me, but also ran down the other stairs and away into the distance. As I settled back in my car a group of teenage lads, clearly looking for trouble after being up all night, dressed as ninjas, came round the corner, and I was thankful to not have been a target as they passed.
I finished on the actual retail park, entirely alone, the call of gulls and crows echoing strangely across the abandoned land. I felt safer here than anywhere. As I looked around me at the new city emerging from its past, glistening in the new day’s sunlight, I hoped that my other self would know I was ok.