The other side of Liverpool Lime Street station. I remember arriving here way back in 1992, I think in July, walking out into the excitement that is Liverpool. For a London girl who had been banished for years to the outer reaches of Leicester, the atmosphere was electric.
Strange to realise halfway through the interview that, short of dancing naked on the fashionable black ash composite table, they were going to give me the job.
I couldn't fathom it. I was hot and sweaty, leaving perspiration trails on the black ash, hungover from the night before (I'd got off the train at Crewe to be sick in a waste bin). Perhaps my glasses were authentically crooked, or maybe it was the way I rose to the question of whether I had ever sacked anyone.
I was asked to wait. Did I even get a cup of tea? Then the Treasurer joined me and started talking about pensions. "Could I make a phone call?" I asked and rang my referee - expect to hear, I said. He didn't let me down. Thank you, Jamie.
Months later he was telling me his frustrations with the same trustees, well, actually the same Chair of Trustees. "Ha!" I said, "welcome to my world."
In due course, the Chair got my old job. No surprise there, he'd exhausted all lines of influence in his previous job plus mine was a higher grade. Seven years later there was a dawn raid, computers confiscated, arrests made. Very pleasing.
I walked down to the beach on a beautiful afternoon, climbed over the dunes and down onto the promenade where you could see the army, 100, I think, of iron men facing down the sea in Another Place.
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