Poet-in-Residence Journal: Avro Heritage Museum (March-September 2026) Part 8

THE SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY MUSEUM MANCHESTER

While I wanted to share the rest of the Brooklands Story with you, I also wanted to tell you about my visit to the Science and Industry Museum in Manchester. Caught between two compelling stories, I’ve decided to tell you about the latter — my visit to the Science and Industry Museum and perhaps return to the Brooklands Story on a different occasion.

It was a Tuesday, a wet but pleasant morning; it was warm enough to wear only a light raincoat. I arrived on Cambridge Street with forty-five minutes to spare. I parked the car near the Anthony Burgess Centre and walked down First Street. Passing HOME on my left, I crossed over the lights towards Deansgate Train Station. After passing what used to be the Hilton Hotel, I was less than a mile from the museum.

Arriving at the museum, I checked my email for the arrival time: 10:30 a.m. It explained that if I happened to arrive early, I should make use of the museum café or take a look around the galleries.

Glancing at the time, I realised that I had thirty minutes to kill. I ordered a bottle of water in the café and decided to walk a few metres to the local park to the right of the museum. The park was empty, or at least I thought it was. As I walked through the cast-iron gates, I noticed a man sitting on a sleeping bag in a far corner. There were pigeons feeding nearby and sunlight fell inches away from his feet.

I changed direction. This was his home, in a sense, I thought; I didn’t want to disturb him. I glanced at him again. He was stoic, frozen in the shade, staring down at his feet. I looked away. What else was there to do? I continued towards a monument and read the words written there. I could hear someone talking loudly on their phone. I glanced at my watch, there were twenty minutes more to kill.

In the distance was a circuler concrete flowerbed with a second monument rising from its centre. I walked over to take a closer look and was taking my time circling its perimeter, when my phone rang. A friend FaceTimed me. She wanted to know if I was available to talk. “What is your schedule?” she asked when I told her where I was. “Remind me again. I can never remember where you will be on what day.”

We chatted for a little, and I turned the camera around so she could see the park. The homeless man was still staring down at his feet.

I left the park, said goodbye to my friend and crossed over the quiet road. I glanced at the time — ten minutes to go. Perfect, I thought. I entered the museum. There were a few people queuing with small children. Four assistants stood at the reception desk, ready. Within two minutes, I was talking to one of them. I flicked through my emails, trying to find the name of the archivist I was booked to meet. “I will call the department and see if anyone answers,” the young woman in her early twenties said. Her long black hair swept her shoulders as she walked the short distance to the phone.

A few seconds later, I found the name of the archivist and went over to announce it proudly. “Thank you,” she said. “If you would like to come in and wait, someone is on their way up to get you.”

I said, thank you and began to follow her towards the gallery floor when I had a sudden thought, “Where were my reading glasses?” I was struggling to find the archivist’s name because I wasn’t wearing them, I realised.

I paused to check my rucksack—resting the bag on my knee while I rummaged through its many compartments. “I’m sorry,” I said, hurrying after the young lady, “I think I may have left my reading glasses in the car and without them the day will be unfruitful.”

She nodded, face frozen, perhaps not knowing what to say to me. “I’ll have to walk back to the car and fetch them,” I said. “Could you please tell the archivist that I arrived on time but forgotten my reading glasses and have gone back to get them? It will take me roughly fifteen minutes each way,” I told her.

She nodded and told me not to worry, that it was okay. I left the museum thinking of the free time I had wasted watching the homeless stare at his feet and reading monuments in the park. I crossed over the road, thinking of the time that was now lost. I had only two hours to view boxes of papers. How was I going to do it with even less time?