A neglected church, the pervasive smell of damp overlaid with Brasso and Mr Sheen. On the salt blistering walls a purgatory of miserable saints cast their judgement on your failings. Oak pew-end carvings of many headed beasts eat pilgrims from pitchforks. Home knitted kneelers are padded with regret and building rubble. At the door a pack of curling postcards sit on top the donations box it’s padlock forced and the meagre contents enough to buy cigarettes and Tizer.