VICTORIA STATION, MANCHESTER 6.47AM
Two nights before there had been the Autumn Equinox, when summer ends and the days tip towards winter. The moon had shone like a torch and was perfectly round, as if it had been drawn by an eager to please schoolboy with a compass. This morning, partly covered by cloud, it had the deflated look of an old leather football that had just been clogged towards touch by an uncultured centre half.
Outside Victoria Station there’s a new roof, which reminded me of a giant tomato cultivation tunnel but, within the concourse, light was spread evenly and softly, allowing the retained original features to live again. For some reason, though, the station buffet, with its dome and delicious Victorian tiles, contained chairs and tables that could have come from a closing down sale at a service station.
After taking the picture I walked up towards Shudehill and settled near the grey multi-storey car park that borders the old buildings of Thomas Street. A workman walked past, pushing an empty wheelbarrow. He stared at me for a few moments, and then said “There’s no kingfisher’s here mate. Are you trying to catch the missus and the boss?”
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