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.
