I’ve always loved railway stations and when we had a recent trip to Hamburg we visited this one each day for breakfast. We were staying at a posh hotel nearby where breakfast was 32€ each!!
The interior is more like an airport – the concourse crowded with well know multiples and lots of eateries.
Very different from the Liverpool Street station i knew when I lived in Petticoat Lane before WW2.
From my memoir Woman in a White coat
I remember my father as a quiet kindly man, rather overwhelmed by the five women in his life – my mother, my grandmother and us three sisters. If he minded not having a son, he never said so to me. In his wedding photo he had a mass of straight black hair, but I only remember him being bald, with a fringe of greying hair around the edges.
On Saturday afternoons, when my mother had a nap, and my sisters went off with their friends, he used to take me for a walk. Sometimes we’d go to Liverpool Street main line station. We’d stand on the bridge over the railway tracks and watch the steam trains coming in and out. I’d hold my breath in case they didn’t stop in time to avoid crashing into the big round buffers at the end of the tracks. Other times we’d walk through the City, the great financial houses now quiet and shuttered. We’d sit in Finsbury Square, a piece of stale bread in our pockets for the sparrows and watch them picking at the crumbs. If there were any road works around we’d go and stand near them. The smell of tar was meant to be good for your lungs.
I’d try to tell my father how unfair I thought my mother was, and how she preferred my sisters to me. He’d pat me awkwardly on the head.
‘You know your mother,’ he’d say.
And that was that.