Get off the 219 bus in the centre of Manchester, at the stop outside the Tesco store. Ignore the chill breeze that chases past your hair, messing up a perfectly coiffed head. Ignore too the crowds of impatient people desperate to get on the bus and travel to the exotic zone of Openshaw, home to the highest rate of unemployment in the Manchester area. Walk instead back to the nearest left corner of the Tesco, as you look at it and lean against the wall, facing the road. Notice the salmon coloured building. Follow the line up the building on the opposite side of the street, from the O.K. café, upwards, ever upwards to the very top of the building. Just before the top of the building is a frieze running below the ledge, of vines and leaves intertwined, bearing ripe, round, plump fruits, peaches? Fruits that could only ever flourish as stone effigies in this harsh northern climate. In the eaves of the green attic window roof, the number 1877 denotes the date of the birth of this newly reborn edifice. Let your eyes wander along the very top of the roof now, right, towards the cupola at the corner. Wait! Are you being watched? A man sits, lies, one leg outstretched, the other bending at the knee, straw hat placed forwards on the forehead, baggy shirt and trousers. Something about him is wrong. He is too still. The strangest statue ever, of a man, a worker, taking time out to doze in the sunlight, but more frequently in our sodden city, he lies covered in a blanket of drizzle.
I first noticed this statue fourteen years ago, when the bus route changed and began travelling along London Road. I was always looking up, because eye level can be so disappointing sometimes, and up is where buildings sometimes hide their treasures. The first time I saw it I was sure I had imagined it. I was convinced it was just it was an oddly dressed real person. The following day I looked again, and believed he had moved. No. If you walk again to the right, you can see he has a companion on the other side. Everyday on my way to work in the sparkling metropolis of Salford, I would look up to greet my roof dwelling acquaintances, and be quietly pleased that I seemed to be the only person who had ever noticed them. I began to feel selfish. I began to look around the bus, desperately searching for another pair of eyes who had seen this amazing piece of architectural art, to connect with another real person, to smile, to exclaim how great it was. Sadly, I have never managed that spontaneous connection about this building, though I hope that you, reader, might.
