rising on the escalator under violet lights, all is eclipsed by the brightness pouring down from the oval glass dome illuminating the Victorian coloured tiles in the ticket hall as if you were to see the very panoply of Buddhist Heaven boddhisatvas and demons, each tiered in its own clerestory instead of which you emerge onto a nondescript side street with what looks like an old church made of corrugated iron but which turns out to be a training ship for sea cadets, miles from any ocean, stranded like those hulks near the Aral Sea