Manchester: a near miss

It’s fun to be back in Manchester. It’s one of those cities stretching across northern England – Liverpool, Manchester, Bradford, Leeds – that fell on hard times after a prosperous past, but are rebuilding themselves a future full of dynamism.

Canal Street, centre of the Manchester gay scene
and one of the liveliest places in England

We nearly moved to Manchester decades ago. At the time, I was working for a company which had an office up there from which it seemed to make sense that I might work. That was particularly so because we could have afforded a significantly more comfortable house in North West than the best we could buy – and were living in – down in the South East.

Danielle was open to the idea, though she felt it was a bit of a wrench. We’d started making friends in Dunstable, where we were living, and it would have been a shame to abandon the life we were building. I still felt we should consider the possibility, if only because Manchester seemed a great deal more interesting than a small and increasingly run down market town which was little more than the intersection of two major and heavily trafficked roads.

It was not to be.

We set off for the drive North Westwards in bright sunlight. I told her about the many exciting possibilities the move would open up to us. In the warmth and under a blue sky that sounded all the more convincing and we travelled in good mood and full of optimism.

However, Danielle wasn’t terribly well. The closer we came to our potential new home, the worse she felt, until a few miles out a hammering headache took agonising hold of her.

And then, with no warning, the thickest clouds I have ever seen covered the sky. They were so dark as to be virtually black. You know, it’s like those pieces of clothing described in catalogue as ‘charcoal’, suggesting some kind of dark grey, when frankly they’re like pitch. Honestly, I had to put my headlights on at midday.

The mood suddenly lost all its buoyancy. Danielle, who’d been smiling and cheerful, began to look increasingly unhappy or even scared, until she could stand it no more.

A pleasure for which some uncomfortable commuting is a price well worth paying.
“I can’t move here,” she said.

I wanted to argue with her but frankly couldn’t. I don’t believe in signs from the gods but, hey, if ever there were such a sign, we were being served one just then. “Don’t move here,” it was saying loud and clear.

It was just as well. A year or so later I changed job and, if I had to move at all, it would have been to Worcestershire rather than to Manchester – a long way south.

On that occasion, my eldest son’s classmates actually raised a petition to stop us going. “Don’t take David away from us,” they demanded, with an impressively high number of signatures. Again, it was clear that I was up against an irresistible force, and I conceded and resigned myself to commuting an hour and a half in each direction for the next two or three years.

Oh, well. I was clearly stuck. But, on the other hand, we kept the friends we’d started making back in Dunstable. Indeed, they remain some of our best friends to this today.

A pleasure for which a difficult commute was a small price to pay.