Every building constructed between 1993 and 2004 was legally required to pretend it was something else.
In this case, an otherwise sensible municipal brick office block has decided to cosplay as a 1930s transatlantic ocean liner that has run aground somewhere near a retail park.
Behold the magnificent concrete cornice: jutting proudly into the upper-right corner of the cosmos, supported by massive diagonal brackets whose sole architectural function is to look faintly menacing and prevent the sky from falling into Accounts Payable. Just below, a decorative Art Deco keystone sits completely unburdened by any structural responsibility whatsoever, resembling a stone necktie pinned to the forehead of the building.
To ensure that nature does not mistake this triumphant civic monument for an actual cliff, the entire upper perimeter has been lined with several hundred yards of anti-pigeon spikes—the universal sign that humanity has firmly drawn a line in the sand regarding avian leisure.
Meanwhile, taking up roughly eighty percent of the available frame, an enormous expanse of brilliant blue sky hosts a single, wandering cloud. The cloud has no planning permission, possesses zero architectural ambition, and is slowly drifting away to hover over a nearby roundabout.