The view of Liverpool from the Ferry Cross the Mersey is all glistening new and sharp edged. New museums, art galleries

and tree lined plazas

are spread along the old dockyards.

Years ago Erica would walk to work along the same waterfront, braving the cold winter mornings huddled in her “mini coat”.

In a head wind she would press her way along the treeless Merseyside wharves, sharing the street with the union workers on their way to and from the docks and pubs. On to the David Lewis Northern teaching hospital,

rebuilt in the 1860s, with its staff of bow tied consultants from pre-NHS days, young housemen, registrars, matron, nurses, physios, radiographers and porters.
And the patients:
The scabby headed, gray vested boys
The wet nosed, gray frocked girls
The dock workers, retired, working, out of work
The wives, prostitutes, girl friends, and
The billy-clubbed watchman who kept the wharf rats, drunken husbands, “johns” and boy friends out.
The David Lewis Northern and the dockyards, save for a few old relics

are now just memories and photos.

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