It was said that the rays of the sun never touched the pavement. The four and five story buildings cut into the steep hillside cast a permanent shade. Each morning as I hurried to work I sometimes caught a glimpse of the varying subterranean worlds that resided in the dark cellars of these buildings.
Today a door previously closed to me stood open, allowing me to see blackened shelving, holding equally black trays, upon which lay row upon row of jet black pork pie tins. A rich aroma of spiced gelatine issued on to the street as the baker slammed the door.