The old time music hall was dying, it smelt wrong, its floor boards no longer tacky with beer, walls that no longer echoed to music. I looked across at Jenson Mc Dermot and wondered, why did he not care. A multitude of acts that had performed here over the last a hundred years. Why the building shouted history and laughter, even the piano, with its worn keys. Dripping with blood, where the hell was Mc Dermot. Now the building vibrates with the sound from music hall acts, how I love that piano, and it’s blood red keys.