How many early mornings, that second winter in Manchester, nodding on the upper level of a 168 bus on the way to work, softened to emotional silly putty by weariness and gripping hip pain was I moved to tears by Joan As Police Woman on the mp3 player singing that one line right as the bus lurched towards Hulme and the sunrise flashed briefly between buildings, warming me through filthy windows?
“Greet me with flushed chest again/ Morning bird I’ll wait for you/ How could I not/ How could I not?”
