Lost in La Manchester

With apologies to Terry Gilliam

Wednesday early evening, found me adrift on the mean streets of Manchester after representing one of our members. I hadn’t been to Manchester for over a year, and having 3 hours to kill before I was due at our quiz I decided to go on an impromptu shopping hunt. My quarry was the almost mythical Arndale shopping centre, and instead of “tilting at windmills” I wanted to tilt at the perfect fitting summer dress.

I wasn’t exactly sure where I was in Manchester, and I wasn’t exactly sure where The Arndale was, but I decided to trust my innate (and mostly misjudged) sense of direction. So off I strode down the narrow, mill lined streets with a confidence and hope. This turned to bewilderness and panic as the landscape turned from the quiet grandeur of Victorian industrial architecture to shabby sleazy “private” shops and litter strewn booze vendors. Between every other surviving business, was a boarded up, fly-postered relic, complete with huddled homeless person wedged in the doorway. I had lost faith that I would ever find my gleaming shopping dream, and was just about to turn heel and retrace my steps home, when I spied a large, friendly blue P. Where there is a car park surely there would be a shopping centre. And Lo, it came to pass, that I spent a happy hour trying my way through most of the summer dresses that my favourite (ie the only one that stocked my size) shop Evans, stocked. In the end I plumped (such an apt term) for a gorgeous full, tiered, print skirt. Buoyed and emboldened by my purchase, and with a little time still on my hands  I set out to explore a little more before heading back to my car.

Picadilli Gardens bathed in the evening sun was a pleasant diversion. I sprawled amongst my fellow travellers, taking respite on the grass, until my watch reminded me of my impending quiz appointment. So refusing to learn from my countless failures of a sense of direction I set off in the vague direction of my car park on Dale Street. After half an hour or of wandering where each street became less recognisable than the one before I made a firm decision. I was utterly lost. Lacking a Sancho Panza for a companion I scanned around for anyone who looked like they had a working knowledge of Manchester's geography. However the only people I could see appeared drunk, very drunk or were a bouncer at one of the countless clubs. I figured that the bouncer’s knowledge of the streets ended at how much they hurt  when they threw someone to it. The decision as to who to ask, was taken out of my hands by a mildly scruffy and deceptively young man who approached me calling “Could you lend me 75p so I can get to Rochdale, luv”. Well quid pro quo, I thought, or almost a quid anyway. I decided to give him 2 quid in the hope he would return my generosity with some clear directions. I enquired to where Dale st could be, but he just waved wildly in a direction that covered at least 3 points of the compass. Giving up on him as a guide I walked away with an insincere thanks. Not taking the hint he walked alongside me and then confessed that he really wanted the money for a couple of pints and if I gave him just one more pound he would reach his target, adding that I looked lovely by the way. His candour made me laugh and I declined this opportunity to further invest in him with a chuckle and a congratulation for his hustling style.

15 minutes and drunk hustler behind me I was now exactly 15 minutes more lost. I figured that I must have overshot my destination and turned back towards whence I came…ish. As it the light dulled my anxiety sharpened. At one stage I just stood stock still, utterly devoid of ideas and feeling just about as alone as I have ever done. I vainly searched for a hailable Taxi to provide salvation, but everyone I saw was taken with snug smug customers. The city that had been bright and welcoming on the grass of Picadilli Gardens was now just plain menacing. I passed a group of young male twats who shared bonding sniggers of hatred in my direction. Then just as I was about to sit down and make wherever I was my new home, a bell rang, a penny dropped and thingy thingyed (last one needs work). I had my blackberry in my black bag and on my blackberry in my black bag was blackberry maps app. Oh why oh why did I not twig sooner. I found Dale Street on my mobile. It was only a couple of streets away from Picadilli Gardens. I had spent the best part of an hour walking in the wrong direction, but thanks to my inabillity to stick to one path I was not an hour away from the car. My car stood alone on the now empty lot as if to mock my late return, but I cared not. I was just so glad to be back in one piece and back at peace.

Of course I was late getting to the quiz, and to top off a crap night we lost on a tiebreak.