A: 1st Chapter - setting the scene

If I took narrating seriously, if I were to do the job of
scene-setting justice, I would meet you somewhere in the North of
Manchester; just outside the confines of the M60 orbital, sometime in
mid-July.

Amongst some non-descript terraced houses baking in the sun, next to a
Late Shop, I would pull up in my red L-reg Astra estate. I would spot
you, smile at you, then as you entered on the passenger side, greet you
warmly and shake your hand.

I would take you for a drive, showing you where the hero works. For the
office building itself - unimaginably ugly and run-down - might give
clues as to his state of mind in the absence of the usual weather
clich?s. I would make hints about depression, and fleeting suicidal
tendencies, possibly seeing your small nods in the corner of my
eye.

After a quick non-alcoholic tour of the friendly, sticky-carpet pubs
our hero frequents at lunchtime and after work, on to the M60, heading
south and east, and your narrator would slam on the gas until the
pointer indicates 110. You would shift uncomfortably in your seat, as I
mention that this is the route our hero takes on every working day. You
would surely shudder at the wildman spirit of this wonderful road - the
Endless Bend - its disregard for the conventions of sensible motorway
design; and the refusal of its patrons to account for this with a
little application of the brake pedal. With the windows down and sun
roof open, we would breathe in the smells of exhaust fumes and urban
working lives.

I would angle my car away from the madness at Junction 5, where almost
straight away you might sense a change in atmosphere. Cruising down the
Princess Parkway, past McDonalds - braking for the infamous speed
camera hidden behind a road sign - I would then hang a left, before
reaching the white Siemens monstrosity, down Barlow Moor Road.

It's true, for I could have carried straight on back there, and
switched right towards our hero's home. Or I could have deliberately
missed that turning, and taken you through Moss Side (but what's Moss
Side got to do with our hero?) and dispelled a few myths (how
patronising of me to assume you know nothing of the good work to solve
that particular image problem) before hitting the city centre, the
beatific blushing heart of Manchester. Nodding to the lazy self-assured
beat of the Oxford Road area; stopping for trams and cooing at the
striking new water features in Piccadilly; the post-IRA bomb Arndale;
the lifestyle-conscious Canal Street, the unchecked laddishness of
Deansgate and the upwardly-mobileness of Castlefield. Haughty buildings
and strips of railway arches would put you in your place. Yes, we could
have done all that stuff, but you would have to forgive me and resolve
to leave it for another time; and remember that you are here as a
reader, not a tourist.

The fact is, I would explain, you need to see Chorlton to get a better
handle on our hero. This is where our hero lived for the first year he
worked in North Manchester and - were it not for the various advantages
of becoming a homeowner - where he would probably still live. I would
second-guess your enquiry - as to why he didn't purchase a property
here - by parking up on a double-yellow guarded kerb. I would perhaps
watch your eyebrows raise as you see the prices in the estate agent's
window. We would probably take a look around the ?bertrendy bars,
terrace caf?s and shops that sell ornaments and clothing for people
with a degree. It may become clear to you that this is an area long
hi-jacked by Golf-GTI-driving graduates who hung around like the smell
of McVitie's biscuits down in Levenshulme. But you might also notice
the gangs of hard kids in caps, yabbering in a forced half-patois,
ready to fall about laughing when the Golfs collide at the top of Beech
Road.

And, sensing your restlessness, we would arrive back at the car, our
mouths possibly tasting of bitumen hot chocolate, or mango and
pineapple smoothy. We would exit Chorlton via Whalley Range. Waiting at
the lights by the Queen of Hearts church-turned-pub, we might see
students and locals mixing uneasily in its beer garden.

I would definitely point out at this point that the road to the left
leads to the breathtaking concentration of neon-lit Indian eateries in
Rushholme's Curry Mile. (Reason: our hero's favourite food.)

Straight on, I would add, is Levenshulme, where you might have
discovered the smell of the biscuit factory and litter; as well as that
of antiques and the gangsters' fear of change. (Reason: our hero's old
stomping ground, and current stomping ground of best mate Stan.)

We would take a right through Fallowfield's Studentville, taking in the
scent of doner kebabs and the sight of the alcopop-slurping shabbiness
congregating outside the mock-trendy pubs so familiar to our hero in
his days here as an undergraduate.

Then finally, we would be there: Withington, our hero's compromise. A
poor man's Chorlton, or a rich man's Levenshulme, it has some nice pubs
and bars, and a few crap pubs. It has The Contrast: the old dwellers,
the new dwellers; the thrift shops and the book shop; the restaurants
and the chippies. We would take a right on to the aspirational Burton
Road, and again onto Whitchurch road; and at long last, amongst
hundreds of homogenous council and ex-council houses of unusual
concrete construction - half cream paint, half brick-tile, or maybe
pebbledashed - we would find the one our hero bought cheap, renovated,
and filled with Ikea furniture.

For a moment or two we would quietly observe our a hero, sitting in his
freshly mowed front garden, on a plastic white chair, drinking from a
cold can of Stella and reading a Graham Swift novel. You would surely
be able to perceive that he is a man in his
late-twenties-to-early-thirties, with a face that is in equal parts
handsome and scary. His eyes, you would see, are dirty brown,
concentrating hard, helping to cultivate a look which suggests he has -
in his own class-climbing, white-good consuming way - the weight of the
world on his shoulders. And we would both notice the clothes he is
wearing: the grey cut-off combats, the khaki singlet, the retro-style
Adidas trainers.

I would make a humorous remark about this olive-skinned man being
thirty and still blonde-bleaching his hair; and you might laugh, and
return with a comment on the seeming inappropriateness of the careful
black designer tattoos he sports.

And there I would leave you, but not before encouraging you to go close
up, reminding you that our hero can't see you. You would hardly notice
the ignition of my car, the idling of the engine, the scream of my
reversing, and the roar of my pulling away, as you remain oddly
transfixed by this sight of relative mediocrity.

Yes, If I were a proper narrator, I would do it like that.