When writing about my first (that wasn’t my parents’) cat, Jay, I forgot — goodness knows how: as my jaw still bounces off my slippers thinking about it! — his most astonishing exploit.
Home at the time of his adoption was just around a mile’s walk from Darwen station, which had regular and frequent direct trains to Manchester: a place I used to visit a great deal, mainly for the culture — especially the Hallé orchestra at the Free Trade Hall — although shopping at the Arndale Centre (in the days before the devastating 1996 IRA bomb) and for pre-loved clothes (the city has a wonderful student-based and therefore youth-friendly economic sector); exploring the architectural Wow! that is the Central Library; playing backgammon in hidden pubs off Deansgate of an evening; snaffling cask ales and late-night vegetarian takeaways — particularly after experiencing The Smiths launch Meat is Murder… — were all great motivations for being there: and it is for these (and many other wonderful contributing enticements) that Manchester became the first city (of — and still to this day — a very select handful) that I fell in love with (and eventually worked in).
