‘What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?’
What would the poet W.H. Davies have to say about so many who now seem umbilically affixed to their mobile phones, as if their very survival depended on them?
How many, while so engaged, never look up or around them when they might discover architectural marvels and throngs of silent watchers over our beautiful city?
And in Broughton Street, for example, how many ghostly survivals of its past will they have missed?