They say that when you tell a story, any story, you should not start with what the weather was like. I agree completely, and in other circumstances I would not start a story like that.
But if I’m being honest with myself, the weather from that night was the thing that I keep coming back to, that I remember the most. It was that relentless rain; heavy and the kind that saturates you right through. It seeps into your bones like guilt.
I was in Liverpool on that wet, cold and rainy night, a Saturday, waiting at Central Station, one of the main train stations in the city centre. The flotsam and jetsam were passing me by; it was dark and the Saturday shoppers were on their way home, while the early bird clubbers and drinkers hadn’t descended yet. Another hour or so and the place would be fill
