moon over manchester |
instagranchester |
In a word, beach house was (ok
there are several) the only thing that could have lifted me from the state of
anger and pain with which I arrived in Manchester. Not to be discounted,
though, is how nice, like, everyone is in this town. It borders on creepy. Speaking
of which, I am on the 13th floor.
I did at one point actually text damson jam and suggest that we come back up to manchester to see calexico at the ritz. if the ritz were in london, i'd never leave it. it's made me seriously consider moving up here.
the beach house at the ritz |
I did at one point actually text damson jam and suggest that we come back up to manchester to see calexico at the ritz. if the ritz were in london, i'd never leave it. it's made me seriously consider moving up here.
Anyway, long story not that
much shorter, I did not have a direct train up here. And the first leg was
late, forcing me to miss the second leg. I had to wait about an hour for the
next train to piccadillly and missed the first half of the show after running
in to the hotel, dumping my stuff, and running out again. The staff were more
than congenial about it and I even got a ‘have a great time, love’, from reception.
The main point here is that
they played Irene and I am currently in possession of a borrowed lighter from
the take away guy who frequently delivers food to this hotel. We also visited
the venerable thirsty scholar, which is highly commended by me as a place to visit should you ever
find yourself in this part of the world.
I also spent time speaking outside warrington station to a
woman formerly of ‘several airlines’ and currently with the London underground
who told me I could claim against virgin for making me miss my train and that I
could borrow her lighter. She is the reason I spent too long chain smoking
outside the station.
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