Strolling before the city became shiny (1)

I passed several women with umbrellas as I left the building. They had thought ahead this morning and heeded the weatherman’s threat of rain, although the rain had not come, thus far.
No rain, but wind. A strong gust that rattled the teeth and singed the ears but, if wrapped in a half-decent coat, wouldn’t cut through the bones. I braced myself and gazed toward the water, visible at the bottom of the street, over the carriageway and beyond. Not too busy, the ferry was in view and a ship was moored on the far bank of the river.
I continued on down the hill, the pavement not too cracked as I advanced towards the on-coming traffic. A one way street with a church on the left, a hotel at the bottom shaped like a steam iron and two red post boxes. There was so much more to the street, but on this journey little more was noticed.
The post boxes were salient as I had twice trekked to more far flung pillars to deposit mail in the last few weeks. Had these two beauties sprung up over night? I realised I was far less observant at street level than I was with the skyline above. I was angry with myself, angry for noticing and, then again, for not noticing. I imagined kicking the post boxes and then moved on.
I was walking for the sake of it. I had never before rounded the front of the Atlantic Tower Hotel and travelled against the flow of Albert Dock bound traffic. I did it today. Maybe I’d been missing out on something amazing? I doubted it almost completely, but intuitively realised it was worth doing. Experience is everything to a man, to this man at least.
Surprised as I was to learn that one of the road tunnels under the River Mersey exited beneath the body of the hotel, I almost walked out into tunnel traffic. At first the tunnel appeared to me a mouth, a wondrous cavern into the depths of the city and later the planet. Yet it became immediately unwelcoming as it spat uncomfortable vehicles towards me.
The stream was not continuous. Indeed, for small periods, the mouth lay empty and invited my consideration to walk inside, arms ready to embrace whatever I should find within. Of course, I expected to be embracing a warm bonnet if I should venture into this particular Aladdin’s Cave. The experience gained would likely be my last.
This degree of empirical data was, I felt, at this time unnecessary and I had seen the likely results in an UNKLE video on MTV2 recently.
I instead waited for a safe opportunity to cross the forked-tongue-road that allowed traffic out onto the main carriageway. My legs skipped across the tarmac with some urgency.
Ahead lay the near side of a new development. To be the tallest building on the Liverpool skyline, I needed to see the façade from beneath. A tune, recognisable as coming from the obtuse stable of DJ Paul Oakenfold, was annoying my mind – some fool had it blaring from their car-stereo. These sensual beats, along with a Holsten Pills billboard, distracted me sufficiently from the fact I was already standing beneath the new tower. I looked up and it seemed small.
Unimpressed as I, perhaps, some joker in an Audi lost control and ploughed into me.