Very late weekend update

Friday we went off to watch some rugby with the inlaws.



Starting the match with fireworks might have been a bad plan.



And Max and Paddy were there....



Unlike the three failed attempts by Wigan, this was a try for St. Helens.



Wigan didn't play very well, but this little dude was flying the flag of hope all the way through.



This ref isn't welcome anywhere near Wigan.



There wasn't a whole lot of er, 'try' involved.



Dejected Wigan supporters leaving the stadium :(.


A combination of stupidity and business at the game meant I forgot to take photos. But it was really good! Keymer was a brilliant NPC, really got them riled up. There was yelling and side taking and forts full of blood and a history lesson about how Manchester means tit-fort.... I was so pleased.

Then Retro after with MattAllen, Sanderson and Pips. Pips drank a pint!

Ben very kindly let us crash at his since we're still car-less and we got up early with him. Dropped him at the Midland and then had a wander around Manchester. We headed into work to try and use the damned fax machine, to no avail. But managed to use the photocopier instead. And then we had the rest of the day just to do random stuff.

Things we learned:
1. Only the elderly and employed are awake and walking around Manchester at 9:00am.
2. Krispy Kreme are always delicious and they have good, normal, coffee
3. Subway breakfast subs are amazing.
4. Old men can be kicked off trams for antisocial behavior.

I went and bought a hoodie to help combat the cold and we went a wandering:








We wandered over to Albert Square and saw the carpet of flowers set up to look like textiles.





I finally remembered to take a photo of the portable toilets at Piccadilly gardens.





We went up in the ferris wheel and did a few circles. It was pretty cool. I could point and go 'I can see my work from here!'

We wandered up to St. Anne's square and had some German food at the markets. We missed the Lakeland stall though, which makes me a sad panda.

Then Pips recommended seeing a movie, so we headed off to the Printworks to book Wall-e.



We had about a half an hour to kill and decided to find some bookstores. And wandered down some alley ways.













Wall-e was adorable. I loved it. And I got a pink lilly from the flower thing at Albert square. It was a pretty awesome day out and a really good weekend:) What wasn't awesome was discovering fuck all trains run from Victoria on Sundays. Made it to Piccadilly though.

Weekend review, the trains! THE TRAINS.

The thought occurred to me I should probably start chronicling my adventures. If anything so I can read them and relive when I head back to the US. Primarily so I don't become a needy windbag and start abusing the time and hospitality of my friends back home.

Friday didn't start out well. I left work early in an attempt to be home by 6:00pm. All seemed well until we hit the signal box outside Walkden. Then we stopped.

And stopped.

The conductor told us '10 more minutes' until a half an hour passed. Two women came from the back of the train in a fury. One was claustrophobic, the other concerned about leaving her office. In tandem they chewed out the train driver, while a bunch of middle aged women near me snickered at duo's demands to walk along the tracks.

There are two types of behavior you see when things like this happen. The first is supposed wizened indifference, as evidenced by the older ladies. They're used to the trains failing and believe there is nothing you can do about it, so you suck it up. It's the typically English way to go about public transport. They tend to be quite cruel to people, generally new to the whole process, who are immediately infuriated at the incompetence of the whole system.

Those newcomers are the second types. They're the ones who just started jobs, or college, or moved to the area. The ones that are learning how to commute, learning how the system works. They're the ones that get angry and want to hold people accountable. What they quickly learn is no matter how much earache you give the train companies and their call centres, the best you'll get is a 10 pound voucher. That's even if the toilets are out of order on a 3 hour journey.

Train late beyond the 8 minutes and 30.57830 seconds? 10 pounds. Broken down train on the Wigan via Atherton line? 10 pounds. Cancelled connection where you have to sleep at Crewe for the evening? 10 pounds. Train run over your first born and dog? 10 pounds and an interview in The Sun.

Network Rail operate under the delusion that it's enough.

On Friday, Mr. Me could see the problem (for once,) a broken down train at Atherton station was causing a bit of a pile up. It wasn't moving. The brakes wouldn't release.

Eventually we pushed forward to Walkden station for about 10 minutes. I smoked a few cigarettes in direct rebellion of the new railway by laws and got back on. 10 minutes turned into 30. We finally arrived at Atherton at 7:15 pm, an hour and 10 minutes after we were supposed to.

According to the Ticket Collector this is happening everywhere even today. Though you wouldn't know by reading the supposed advocate for the people Passenger Focus's blog. (Actually, the whole site seems pretty crap.)

This type of thing? Pretty par for the course. Makes me long for MAX and Tri-Met.

But then sometimes it turns out ok

I was late to work this morning. More common occurence then I'd like. I have yet another cold, which I blame on the appalling summer weather and our car decided today was a good time to have its water pipe break. As a result our little Rover is gushing all over the place. I missed my normal morning commuter train, kind of a blessing because the later one usually has seats and wasn't up to doing my morning walk.

I rode the tram to Victoria and then out again. At St. Peter's square I heard a conversation between a Spanish guy and a woman about getting to Old Trafford. Together they observed the map and tried to get him in the right direction. Both apparently missing that all trams, besides the Eccles line, now stop at Cornbrook. To get any further they have to take a bus from St. Peter's Square to all stops on the Altrincham line.

I sat, reading my paper, just about to do the Soduku and I heard a little voice in the back of my head. 'You should help him.' Angry, frustrated with humanity, I tried to push it away. 'No, Tiffany, you should help him. Remember what the public transport system was like for you when you came to England?' I sighed, resigned. Flashes of tears at Piccadilly station while I tried to make my way back to Wigan popped into my head. Flashes of broken languages in other foreign countries with understanding natives popped in my head. I had to help.

'Excuse me? She was wrong. You actually need to go back to St. Peter's Square.' I said, with trepidation in my voice. We disembarked at Deansgate, a place where I could smoke. I pointed the way he could go and where he count use the stairs. It turned out he was going to Old Trafford, the football ground, not cricket. 'Oh. Ok, come with me then. I'll take you to Exchange Quay. It isn't a far walk from there.' He was lovely, his name is Said from Alicante. He's studying economics at the University of Manchester in the Fall. Between my broken high school Spanish and his English, we managed to get things sorted.

Then it was the fare inspectors. More decisions, more little voices in the back of my head. He didn't have a ticket. I got off the tram with him. A burly inspector wandered over to us. 'Do you two have tickets?' 'I do, he doesn't. I don't think he understands the system very well.' In rapid English the inspector leaned forward and told him off. Said looked at me and spoke in Spanish 'can you translate? I don't understand.' I shook my head, my Spanish instructors were good, but not that good.

In a spark of kindness the Metrolink inspector did something I've never seen. He let me take him to buy a ticket at the machine and get on the next tram. Said told me I was beautiful, something I don't hear without a lot of make-up on and I took him to Exchange Quay. I pointed to the football ground and told him how to walk there and told him to avoid Ordsall. I would have taken him but was already an hour late to work. He seemed to understand and told me in quick Spanish I was a good person.

I'm not sure why I did it. It was the right thing to do and this week is slow. For me it was 30 minutes out of my day to help a lost tourist. For him it was less frustration and probably a way to farmilliarize himself with Manchester. He didn't try to take advantage and even invited me to the match tonight. (I can't go, deadline tomorrow for Samurai Warriors 2: Empires.) Overwhelmingly it's a reminder that just because DIY Steve steals your paving stones, and though it might be a struggle, becoming a jerk just isn't an option.

Taking Liberties

Our back garden better resembles a nature preserve. Due to scheduling conflicts (too busy drinking, cavorting, gaming, reading, working, studying, talktalkhelling) we don't have a lot of time to deal with it. So when our downstairs neighbor moved in last fall Mr. Me decided to let him have it. When he told me, the dark mist of 'this isn't going to end well' went down over my eyes. Even though our brownspace wasn't exactly a haven of gardening, it was ours and set definite boundaries. I couldn't put my finger on it but I knew there were problems afoot.

Sure enough, the new neighbor (designated DIY Steve) has started taking liberties. Mr. Me and I moved some paving stones to a small area under a tree so we could have tiny BBQs during the summer. We're not big outside people, crossing that threshold between inside (where we can pretend we don't live in the ghetto) and outside is difficult when you have sub prime examples of humanity all around. Mr. Me told him the only thing not to move were these stones. Leave the area alone.

I'm not the most observant of people. For the most part when it's not mini-BBQ time I'm fairly oblivious to small changes in the local environment. But for the last few weeks I've had a feeling something is missing and today I worked it out. DIY Steve gave our paving stones away to some random family member. This is on top of having a bonfire at 11:30pm last night.

I wish it wasn't true that a vast majority of people will take the mile if given an inch. But it so is. Part of me wants to scream in frustration, part of me wants to live in a cave with nothing to give or take. I dislike being a selfish, closed individual. My nature is to help and be generous but every time someone chips away at my generosity, some part of me just flails and dies.