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COMMENT: 'Give me the countryside every time'
UNTIL last Christmas, when I started at the Gazette, I was a Manchester girl through and through.
I loved a good crowd, adored pretentious cocktail bars and prized my stilettoes above almost anything.
I considered it an essential life skill to be able to flag a taxi from half a mile away and if asked, I’d have looked for a texel on Autotrader.
But on Friday night, as I wheezed into a paper bag on the side of the M60, I realised something had changed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” soothed my fiance, as he began our seventh attempt to find the concert venue we had tickets for.
“It’s not okay!” I screeched, eyes wide with panic, as I tried to remember all the shortcuts I’d once known like the back of my hand. “There are just so many roads!”
An hour later, after several trips round the Mancunian Way, we made it and collapsed in the bar.
“I’ll get us a dr...” tailed off the fiance, as he looked down at a menu in his hand.
“Good god,” he eventually whispered, the colour drained from his face. “How much..?! It’s half this at our local!”
Half a lemonade later, we made our way into the auditorium, which should really be renamed ‘the place where sweaty people lose all sense of personal space’.
The paper bag came back out.
“Why are there so many people in one room? Why is it so busy? Did they accidentally oversell tickets? Why won’t the man with the onion breath stop breathing onto my neck??”
We spent the rest of the gig peering in through the doors at the back, mourning the death of our well ‘ard Mancunian DNA.
You’ll be relieved to know we made it back alive.
On Saturday morning I put my high heels back in the cupbard with what can only be described as relief.
“Well played, countryside," I muttered, as I pulled out my trusty wellies and waterproof. "You’ve won hands down.”
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