One day in mid-July I met up with my two uni friends in Liverpool city centre. For a Saturday it was quiet, for early loosened lockdown restrictions (or whatever we were calling this stage of the pandemic societal control) it was "chocka"! After meeting my friend who'd traveled from the depths of Wigan outside of Lime Street station with a frappe in replacement of a hug, we headed for a cheeky Nandos. I'm not sure exactly what qualifies your Nandos as a cheeky one, but ordering it less than 200 feet away from the restaurant and enjoying it in a chalked-out distancing circle on the grass of Chavasse park feels enough validation for calling this one "cheeky".
We had a lovely catch-up and the weather permitted a touristy stroll along the river. As we were walking around the square of the Albert dock we passed an older gentleman standing alone, leaning against the chain rope. He must’ve overheard my friend acknowledge a favourite restaurant as we turned the corner of the dock square because he stopped us in our tracks with “It used to be the Granada studios, you know?” ...
We stopped to listen to him and he told us he was their security guard and how he absolutely loved it. He told us how people would crowd around the dock to watch the live recordings of The Morning, and how they would report the weather on the water on a giant floating map- listing the sorts of things our parents would probably remember. He shared a funny story about someone running across this area stark naked (he pointed to the exact spot, remembering it like it was yesterday) and how it was his job to catch and cover them up, using the only thing available in the moment - a small hat. It was difficult to imagine a tough security guard from the warm demeanor of this man.
It was a lovely moment spent and we walked away from it feeling like a little piece of (cheeky) history hadn't gone unnoticed, and now we knew a little part of his story. Isn't that what life is all about? Sharing our memorable moments and stories with each other; we become like links in a giant chain. This man was standing alone and we considered the possibility that this might just be the only conversation he had with someone that day- if so, how privileged we were that it was shared with us.
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