Before this, it was a clothes shop – too quickly abandoned – a blank white space on a corner everyone could see.

For a moment, it is new again, despite the polystyrene ceiling tiles and foot-worn floorboards; the name still there in the scraped-off vinyl half-way up the stairs.

Where the party-wear hung in glittering rows, sits a table, stacked with new canvases – a clock; an arm; a half caught memory.

Where the jumpers lay in their refolded piles, there’s a box of ferns, waiting to start a conversation about time.

The changing rooms have been turned into verdant myths by a woman with a paintbrush.

Upstairs, a clarinet plays, amongst the photographs and postcards, the carefully placed products of imagination.

And here – two women, glowing from being told ‘you can, and this is how.’