cane hill | syringes on sunday

We entered the hospital via Browning/Blake, scrambling down broken walls, through an open door and then into this weird later extension: part day room, part conservatory, part cells.

We caught our breath, picking across the broken glass on the wall, quietly watching the footpath for watchful eyes and listening to and becoming acclimatised to the noises within the hospital.

Except Phil. He marched over to a cell door (one can be seen on the left of the picture) and pulled the handle purposely. The handle and part of the door came off in his hand. Unfettered, he grabbed the door by its frame and pulled outwards.

The entire door, and the door frame, quietly fell out of the wall and slammed onto the ground, the boom echoing through the hospital.

(Let's just say that Cane Hill is a bit rotten.)

We had just announced to all and sundry that we were here.