I wrote this post on Friday but due to lack of wi-fi access in the last few days have only posted today.
I'm sitting writing this on the station platform. Just out of sight round the bend the track runs over what was the world's largest brick built structure when it was constructed, Stockport Viaduct. In years gone by many people threw themselves from this bridge, having been driven mad by the chemicals used in the felt hat making process at the town's Hat Works. It gave the Stockport one of the highest suicide rates in the UK and one time.
Falling from the bridge.
But if I were to fall here and now it would be relatively safe as no trains thunder through this place, every single train stops at this station. It is one of those weird by laws and another unique statistic.
I used to fall often as a child and remember mum rolling her eyes at the red-rimmed circles of royal blue ribbed fabric on my knees. That she would have to sort the tights out again, either with needle and thread or find time to buy some more in the shops.
The royal cloth You wore was shameful to many, blood stained and edged. They said you were mad too. God was mad to let You die and Your claim to be King of the Jews just plain annoyed people.
In that fall You gave Your greatest gift to save us all from ourselves.