At least I have dinner

Manchester is a city that leaves me wondering everyday “if only that shop could tell a story, if only that sign, if only that alley way.” Everywhere you look their are pieces of what has been left behind always making me wonder why it was, and how long it has been there.  Perhaps my wonder relates to the fact that my home country is so young.  Anything remotely old draws me in like a moth to a light and my curiosity spins.

Each day my cycle commute takes me through one of the oldest parts of the city where much happened in the industrial revolution, Ancoats and the Northern Quarter.  Reading the history of these areas is awful with 100-hour work weeks, slums, hunger, and stained buildings from all of the coal churning out of the cotton processing mills.  One woman was so hungry she stole in broad daylight food from a market for herself, her children and for her friends.  Her penalty was to be hung.  I consider myself very fortunate to be born in a this day and age, and to be born in a country where I am able to freely express myself, and not be a victim of caste, sexuality or gender.  It is humbling when I get disgruntled about silly things like not having wine to go with dinner as one fact remains: at least I have dinner.