Why is it that whenever you find something interesting, be that good, bad or ugly, to look at, you never have a camera with you. There is always that moment when something catches your eye; a magnificent hair-do, a pithy note scrawled on a wall, or a building of such monumental levels of hideousness that it becomes perversely fantastical. This happened to me this past week as I sat on the train, eyes flitting out of the window in-between bouts of comatose snoozing.
As the train flirted with Gorton and beyond as it made its way through to Piccadilly, there on my left were two hulking, partly battered, bruised and smashed remains of tower blocks. Like a pair of badly abused and coloured teeth, this duo of monolithic ruins stood out and just begged to be photographed. Behind the smashed walls and nestled in amongst the bladn and filthy grey concrete sat a scattergunned spread of dirty and garish purples, reds, blues and greens of what were once people’s rooms and lives.
I thought of my phone camera, but thought better. I thought of coming back in my car at a later date, but life got in the way and my brain forgot. They were there on the way back home and the day after, but then the day i had my camera with me, Sod’s law kicked up the backside, they were gone.