Then a shampoo crisis (the world will end if she has to use mine) on the part of my teenager drove me into the city centre.

It was, again, raining.

And cold.

And wet. Did I mention wet?

And almost nobody else was stupid enough to be there.

So...our Guildhall.  It isn't a real guildhall, being a mere three hundred or so years old. It is, and always was, a folly, built by local residents to celebrate the restoration of the monarchy after the English Civil War.  This had been a staunchly Parliamentarian town, which is likely to have inspired such a public show of loyalty to the new king:

At the dark end of Bridge Street, the Christmas lights are reflected in the windows of a still unlet Woolworths.

And did I mention it was raining?