The shape on these waterfront flats at Bristol remind me of rocket lollies.
Patrick gingerly ventured into the empty building. The door hadn’t been too difficult to budge. His hands felt grubby from the layered cobwebs and dust. Up the stairs and to the left. No clocking in this time. His old desk still sat in the small dank office, the door was ajar, his name etched on a bronze plaque. Patrick Flint, Manager. He hadn’t worked since.