IN MY FIRST YEAR OF ARCHITECTURE SCHOOL, after a terrible critique from a tyrannical examiner, I drowned my sorrows by 1. buying a quart of beer; and 2. drinking it as I sat sketching the old Park Station in the hazy Joburg dusk. The sketchbook in question has, like many others, either been lost, gone into hiding or, perhaps more ironically, been left on a train…
Arriving as a kit-of-parts (like many inner-city buildings of the time), the old Park Station travelled from a foundry in
