Dork

Just as I have begun typing my right foot has got cramp. It really hurts.

Anyway, today I’ve been cantering around Manchestooooor, on two mystery shops. The first was about two miles south of the city. The second, of course, was roughly two miles north of the city.

As usual my day started in the morning, just after I had woken up actually, and way before I will inevitably go to bed. I set off for a morning lecture on the delights of religion in the time of the Renaissance in a good mood. I had my running shoes on, a smelly hoody for vague warmth, and jeans that barely covered my ankles. I looked like a right dork.

Walking down to uni, pondering whether or not I should don some gawkish spectacles to round off my image, my attention was averted to a grotesquely enormous clump of sick, sprayed up against a wheely bin.

The poor bastard who had protruded it from his (or her) stomach must have been glad to get it out. He (or she (lest we forget)) had managed to spray about half of it on the side of the bin, and the rest of the glupey porridge-looking clod was nestled nicely on the floor.

I decided not to stick around to study it for too long, and so moseyed on off down towards my lecture. I passed a now-filled hole in the ground that I had complained about exactly a week ago. I was astonished the council had managed to organise road works to be completed in just one week! I mean, to do their job on time and everything…

Just before opening the heavy glass doors into my lecture hall I heard a group of girls talking behind me. One was complaining about the cold weather. Her words – and I quote – of “It’s freezing today. This is just ridiculous!” really got to me. I wanted to turn to the girl and politely remind her that yes, it will be cold now that it is winter, but I decided against it. She’s in one of my seminars and I don’t want to rock the boat.

After my stunning lecture I set off down to the train station – now eagerly becoming my third home behind the library and the newspaper office – and hopped on a train to Manchester. I bagged a table seat – which is grand when I need to do some work – and nestled into a bit of Restoration comedy.

About half way into the journey I looked up from my riveting book to find everyone on my table, and the table next to us, playing, texting or simply just gawping at their mobile phones. I felt so anti-social sat there with an actual book; so draconian; so… not cool.

I quickly whipped my phone out to find no one had texted me. There’s no point conforming.

I made it into Manchester exactly one hour from when I left Leeds. I don’t know why I noted, remembered, or am even now accounting this at all, I just thought it’d be a good segway into a new era in my day.

Walking into the city centre from Piccadilly station, I witnessed a rather cheeky looking chappy get a wee bit of what he deserves. He was walking half way into the road, ducking in between cars and busses, probably just to piss the drivers off rather than actually get anywhere. As he reached the corner of Piccadilly Gardens, a bus swerved quickly (or as quickly as a 14-ton hunk of metal can swerve) and he was forced to leap out the way.

He guffawed rather menacingly as he escaped death; as though he’d managed to out-wit the driver or something, but sadly for him didn’t see the ankle-deep puddle of swirling rain water that he stood in the admire the scene of his miraculous escape. All I can say about this is – what an idiot.

Manchester – of course – was raining. I don’t think there’s ever been a day in the history of the world that it hasn’t rained at least a smidgeon in Manchester. Today was quite a good day to be honest: it was only drizzling.

Anyway, after a cheeky meal with me father, I set off jogging down to my first shop in the twilight. When I accepted to do this visit, I thought I’d be going to a place called Hulme: just outside Manchester but nice enough. What I didn’t realise – and what my dad told and warned me before I left – was that I was about to amble into Moss Side: notorious as one of the worst council estates in Britain.

Well I’m pretty sure a mop-haired geek in short jeans and a terrible pant would attract no attention here. Luckily for me it didn’t – I only got a few looks as I sped in and out of the shop in a matter of seconds.

It is strange when you enter Moss Side though. There’s a road going across the north/south road out of Manchester that almost acts as a divide between the affluent city and the degraded estate; aptly named Moss Side Road. The contrast is quite astounding. OK it’s not like Pennsylvania Avenue and the surrounding suburbs of Washington DC, but it is clear where the regeneration programs in Manchester are focused.

I didn’t stick around in Moss Side long, and had quickly finished my second shop so that I was on the train back home fairly sharpish. The conductor on the train had clearly had a bad shift however. As he passed a girl who had put her bag on the seat next to her, he exploded in a torrent of gesticulations towards the poor sod about being selfish and not freeing up a seat for someone to sit down on.

As he continued down the aisle he called to some people standing up in the carriage “Hey! There’s a free seat, now that people have decided to shift their bags! Yeah that’s right – they’ve finally moved them!” and he glared straight at this girl.

Nice to know customer relations with Northern Rail staff members are held in such high esteem.