A Christmas market, in Manchester. An oxymoron.
A couple stand in flimsy cream with bouquet and button hole beneath the towering town hall. It rains over them and they smile bravely as a stranger takes their photograph. What a day to remember. The drudge of crowds damp and desperately seeking to make sense of this creature that has landed in their gritty midst.
Christmas in Manchester. Grege, bleak, wet, cold. The stench of rotting bratwurst and nauseous waffles. Office doors open and packs of brittle bent souls spill onto the streets, they sway and scurry to homes or bars to hide to forget.
Frontier land as girls in lacy tights and sleeveless tops swarm into sweating bars and the men look, and they look scared.