Saturday.

Under clear blue skies we set sail for Manchester.  (I lie. We drive.)

The hotel’s grand. Victoriana at its best. Come six o-clock we head out, past the old town hall, accessorised for fun with helter-skelter, big wheel and roundabouts.

Outpacing the stagnant traffic, following signs saying ‘mosque,’ we’re passing the old fish market when I spot the black cowboy hat. We grin at Kinky Friedman – for it is he – and, despite the fat cigar clamped between his teeth, he grins right back.

Yee ha!

Our table seats six. Three couples, each a stranger to the other two. And they got there first. We have our backs to the gig.  Harrumph.

Settled in with a glass of red wine, I let it go. Respond in kind to the friendly woman facing us – and (small harrumph) the front.

It’s seven o’clock. The veggie platter’s good – but…