Britain's got talent auditions - lancaster

There is a shop front, it's abandonment disguised by the adverts for the shopping centre it is in. Huge, window sized coverings which presumably act as a diversion to anyone considering noticing the decline of centre as advertising the place you are when you are already there seems to be a waste of energy.

The double doors are locked. The queue snakes round alongside the window. It is, to be honest, not a long snake, more a stubby line but enough to give the sense that *something* is happening.

In front of the doors, a young man in a 'crew' hoody who looks too frail to be able to stop any potential stampede stands, a pace distant from the queuers attempting to look impassive and authorative but not succeeding in fully disguising the anxiety he feels, presumably aware of how far from the norm of physically intimidating, scowling door person he is.

The mood of the queue isnt, as you might expect, one of excitement. It isn't a fizzing, bubbling, effervescent froth of possibility but a glum, sometimes nervous, slouching sack of earth. It feels stolid, a baked potato of a queue.

Your eyes are drawn to two figures. The first, at the very head of the queue, a late middle aged male, medium build, dressed undemonstrably in a oversized grey fleece and white shirt. His face is a jowley, scowley shape but his eyes glimmer like coals a sad fire.  Hair swept to the side, thinning but not too much, long but not feminine.

A few places behind is a short pepperpot of a woman, in a cowboy hat. It appears to be a cheap imitation of the actual thing, a replica from synthetic material. She stands aside a suitcase, which gives a kind of balance to her squatness. In her eyes is a kind of mania. She looks driven, fearful of failure where as the man looks resigned.

An alleyway, Sheffield.

You are looking at the path, just above its surface. The path is bordered by a grey metal fence, thin vertical bars taller than a human. The fence protects a wasteland. There are plastic water bottles and coffee cups all along the base of the fence, all lying on their sides, empty. The coffee cups mostly have lids, but the bottles don’t.

From the central reservation - somewhere on the M62

This is a long exposure in the dusk light. The sky is crinkled layers of cloud shot through with golden yellow. Silhouetted is a bridge, a spindly foot bridge, concrete black against the light show backdrop. The lights of the cars stream forward. Red to the left sliding away and wight to the right roaring towards. The symmetry of the bridge is offset by the ragged line of crows perched atop the railing looking two dimensional against the sky.

Morecambe Town Hall. Summer

There is what appears to be a 1930's building in the background, it is the height of municipality. It reeks of a civic world long gone. In the middle distance there is a lawn with a small 'park' consisting of some concrete benches and flower beds. These are at a lower level to the town hall. The soil is black, it looks freshly turned over and the flowers are too far apart to add much joy to the scene. On one of the benches sits a man. He is alone and he is slumped. The day is grey, but warm. The man is not dressed for the temperature. He wears a thick sports coat. He is very still. Head in hands.

In the foreground, the lawns rise up again to meet the viewer and a final flower bed. Same freshly turned soil. Same sparse planting. The flowers bloom but the leaves are sickly looking. Yellowing. Every single plant in the row looks poisoned.