Surrounded by an ornate skylight and volumes of antique literature, on Tuesday I wondered why I had never been in the Portico Library before.
I was enjoying my book, racing through the pages faster than usual. My cafetiere was full of delicious coffee for only £3 — a city centre bargain — and there was some quiet chatter.
An American, visiting the UK for the baseball games in London, was catching up with a softly-spoken Mancunian friend. Another gent was flicking through the day’s copy of the New York Times.
