Leave before the Lights come on

It wasn't Glastonbury, admittedly, but our weekend involved a tale of two very different Yarkshire cities. On Saturday, a stroll through "our manor", Spring Bank West, which seems to be morphing into a close approximation of East Berlin in the 1970s. Two Polish women blocked the doorway of Polski Smak with their eastern Blok via western Hull earrings and confrontational, no fixed address perms. In the myriad of "antique" shops that line its eastern drag, a young white wanna be Eminemmer stoops to light a fag inside the shop, caring little for the vintage bedroom cabinets. In an alley close to Dee's house, we spot some grafitti proclaiming that "democracy is the illusion of government". Full marks for spelling awarded, we then spot rats in an abandoned children's playground, yards from Hull's sunset strip of bars and eateries.
On Sunday, and perhaps because of the aforementioned, we decamp to York, for walks around the walls, this lovely installation of candles in a decommissioned city centre church, and ice cream, laughing, in the rain.