Fairy Tales and Gleaming Towers

The reason I find it hard to write about architecture these days is that I simply don't believe in it. Not in the way that I don't believe in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, but in fairness it doesn't have any of their redeeming qualities either. Architecture should epitomise the moral and social ambitions of its native culture, to give us something that excites and surprises us, something that we look forward to being moved by. Remember that feeling as a child, as you forced yourself to go to sleep with a tooth under your pillow or a stocking at the end of your bed, giddy with the anticipation of the rewards the morning would bring?

There have been such occasions when architecture has elicited the same response from me, even as a 29 year old woman. Taking the tram out to Palmeira near Porto, my eyes strained against the shoreline, eager to catch the first glimpse of Siza's teahouse. My palms were damp, I was fidgety and untalkative (it does happen). My whole world was suspended on that skyline.

And lo, it was perfect.

I giddily clambered all over it in a manner completely unsuitable given the shortness of the skirt I was wearing, but I had to see it ALL, take it in, capture it on film, hug it and squeeze it and keep it in my pocket forever more, to preserve the memory of how it made me feel.

And for all their aspirations as our city's new Ivory Towers, I just don't get that from projects like the Heron Tower I'm afraid. Nor the Cheesegrater. One New Change is nice an' all - dodgy 80s fretted glazing aside - but I find it raises my adrenaline levels about as much as the weekday anticipation of the lunch break. So please, dear architects, next time you're designing a scheme, remember the Easter Bunny.