A Sunday afternoon and a weekend winding down. A trip to see if there’s anywhere interesting in St John’s Market – that unchanging, timeless place – still open beyond the Poundlands and Wilkos.

The entrance by the Radio City door, always deserted, as if everyone has forgotten about it. Grubby and vaguely sinister. A long flight of stairs to the shops, no-one else about, not even a sound.

As we enter a familiar sound, music coming from unseen tannoys. The first bars of a beloved yet vaguely forgotten song from three decades ago – as if the building is welcoming us inside; playing some personal entrance music.

We climb the long staircase to the the affecting strains of OMD’s Souvenir and when the rolling synth riff kicks in it feels like a peculiarly joyous moment. The shops at the top of the stairs are closed; the market hall deserted. No-one is around.

It seems that this place could be Liverpool 30 years ago – there’s nothing, literally nothing to suggest otherwise. It’s quite eerie, yet a rather lovely moment. We shoot a quick vid.

Inevitably we round the corner, half hoping that the entire building is inexplicably, worrying derelict. But no, there are pasties and shouting children and weary Mums.

For one brief Liverpool minute, though, we were in a time warp. A twilight zone. A wonderful, weird vignette – one world bleeding into another.

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