where art collides philosoperontap

That place between sleep and full consciousness is a lovely one to savour. The dream hasn’t yet been forgotten and the usual neighbourhood morning activity outside is only starting to become apparent. Car doors slamming, engines starting up, rubbish vans reversing far too quickly up the one-way street beeping as they go, the odd bird jumping about on the slates above my head. This morning there was a cockerel. It wasn’t part of the dream, it was a proper, real, cockerel with as good a cock-a-doodle-doo as they get. I wonder if Cardiff City council are re-introducing them in an attempt to bring nature back to the inner city. Or perhaps it’s just another installation by the local art centre. Either way, it was good to hear. If it’s still there in six months in can add its voice to all the other birds (mostly seagulls) that wake me up at 4am every day.

Brightly party coloured frocks and heels with emigrants sequined mingle at Lime Street.

Stepping onto the platform feels as if we are heading towards an ocean liner and a new life.

The Steam Bar is only a partial destination. A woman adjusts her set.

The black ties have upped and gone and the dark haired barmaid with the cleavage has wiped the table. Gold lame and glittering red but no regulars.