At approximately 10.35pm on a cold winter’s night, when the bitter winds howled and the bright lights blotted out the stars, Mother walked through the revolving doors into a tale of two cities. Perhaps? Actually, make that three. And Dickens was serving nail varnish remover with a hint of lime..

Mother, whilst stretching her legs, briefly considered the soldiers and sailors saluting sleeping bags. Others casually conversing with a pineapple. She asked herself had the absolute become the incomplete. Mother considered how on close inspection the tiles of the piss-stained shower that complemented the hierarchy only seemed to get wider.

Becoming more and more disturbed at what seemed the unobservable truth, she sat down next to filthy hair and rotted teeth. But disgrace could not hide a warm heart and talented fingers.

Soon the energy began to drain. So at some minute between the hours Mother found herself serving out added spoonfuls of dignity, along with other part-timers, brothers and lovers. All this to lonely weeping shadows.

And then came the order, from a stroke of inspiration. No Sex Please! We are the British. The street-corner is clearly visible to the ongoing public; untroubled in the sardine tin train. And as public decency was upheld, Mother sighed to herself and thought of the five immeasurables.

A short time later, for all it was plain to see that Mother had not died softly in her sleep. Rather, smothered by a heavily fingered election manifesto. But not before she took a last glance at the empty building, continuously empty.