I sat on the cold damp steps of St Luke’s, my eyes fixated on my phone as I nervously awaited the result of Labour’s leadership vote. Around me people were beginning to arrive for the ‘Protest Liverpool’ rally in support of refugees. A myriad colours passed by. Flamboyant clothing and students sporting even more vibrant hairstyles drifted past. The pinks and greens were a refreshing antidote to the grey sky that was threatening a downpour. Not that it would have mattered. In truth not even a storm of biblical proportions could have extinguished the burning sense of hope in my heart.

I had been glued to my handset on the train ride into the city centre and even as I walked up Bold Street to a building, affectionately known locally as the ‘bombed out church’, I could barely look up. Sky, the BBC and most commentators were calling it already…