The alarm goes – 7am and my plan swings into action. Meds, up, dressed and drive to Rochdale in the pouring rain to catch the 8.15am train to Manchester Victoria. Simple. The half-an-hour needed between meds and breakfast sorted 7.50 get in the car for the 8.5 mile journey, 8.10 arrive at the station to see the train already on the platform. Odd?
I hastily try to get a ticket from the machine but it rejects my debit card for no reason. I run, literally through to the barrier which the guard opens when I say, ‘I can’t get a ticket’, he advises, ‘Go to the upstairs office,’ so I bound up the stairs quickly – but the train is no more, it is already on its way to Manchester. I see on the display behind the assistant that the next train, the 8.30, which would have got me there in time has been cancelled. Instead all that is on offer is an 8.39 – too late.
Running back to my car I pass the guard and mutter, ‘So much for going by train.’ On arriving at the railway station car park I check out the time… 8.16. Hmmm.
Straight to the M62 then on to the M60 – the rain is horrendous, the spray terrific and the cars, including mine are now going faster than they should given the conditions even if under the speed limit. Then I join the slow and steady crawl through Cheetham Hill (even on a Saturday) and I decide to park in the Arena. Last time I took the cheaper option and parked my car across the road some kindly person keyed every door – time 8.47am.
I am a quick walker and through the arena walkway I hastily stride (I am not discussing what was going through my mind as I passed this location) then out into the pouring rain and I trundle checking my map (which is now soaked) and I make my way to Central Library. Ever the reporter, I note what I see as I pass M&S and there are two security guards outside the main doors, then I walk on a little further and an army of street cleaners are busy at work. Further still and I spy the remnants of someone’s sleeping quarters, a pile of cardboard boxes, then more outside another shop doorway. I look inside the premises and it is a luxury barbers.
Another bank doorway and this time, crumpled in a corner, a shiny sheet catches my eye – silver one side and green another. I guess it was handed out to another rough sleeper spending a wet night in Manchester. More cardboard, but very few people sitting on the make-shift beds and I reach my destination – 9.05am.
I meet the teachers and pupils from the Manchester primary school and they interview Jacqueline Wilson, only 
one of the most popular children’s authors and the creator of Tracy Beaker. Questions asked and answered, video taken and photographs snapped, we all prepare to leave. The rain still pounds down and I think of all I have seen and all I have done that morning. It is uppermost in my mind as I walk back through the centre.
I wonder if I will see the cardboard relics and am surprised as I retrace my steps to find them gone. Then outside one wealthy shop I spy white refuse bags neatly tied and inside are the folded up cardboard remains of someone’s bed from last night. Just waiting to be removed from public view and tossed into a rubbish truck.
Then the shiny sheet catches my eye again, it is still there. In my head I had been planning this blog so I stop, head covered with my coat’s hood as the rain still pours, I get out my phone, click, I take a simple photo of the sheet purely as an illustration and walk away.
Then I hear, ‘Oi!’ I walk on. Then. ‘Oi you, stop!’ I walk faster. Then, ‘Oi you, you little tart come here!’ I know this is directed at me and I advance my speed walking suddenly a corner comes into sight. ‘Don’t you walk away!’ No sooner do I get round the corner, my heart thumping, than I break into a sprint water splattering everywhere from the sodden precinct. Spotting a market stall I take a sharp left then put down my hood; that will change my appearance. I walk and walk and walk faster and faster not daring to look round. But I have to. I glance – no one is now following. Phew, whoever was probably deservedly angry that I photographed a discarded sheet is now no longer there.
Now soaked, back up goes the hood and I regain my composure and get back to the Arena 10.25am, settle the £5.50 parking fee and make my way home. On the M66 the volume of water is immense and I can feel the tyres starting to aquaplane so I quit at Ramsbottom and head down the old road.
Home – 11.10am. Mileage 43 miles – home to Rochdale would only have been 17 and cost of train ticket. My intention had been to try to use public transport and I am afraid that was an epic fail.