I’m late and lost. Ancoats is a labyrinth-esque playground for mancunian’s hip and trendy twenty-somethings. Given that I am soon to enter my sixtieth decade on this planet, I haven’t got a clue where I am going. I finally discover Halle St. Peters to find it bathed in reverential hush. Local lass Elle Mary is bearing her soul and you can hear even the very inkling of a dropping pin. I surreptitiously creep in, awakening memories of trying to sneak in late to assembly without catching the headmaster’s eye.

Read More