Kitten hunting in Manchester...

Jumped on the train from Edinburgh to Manchester. Nice trip, quiet, mostly reading and listening to the iPod. Didn't pay much attention to the scenery on the way down, although it was light out for most of it. Plan to stare out of the window much more on the way back.

At about Preston, just before Manchester, a guy sat next to me, of Chinese/Tibetan/Mongolian descent, clutching a scrap of paper which turned out to be directions to Peterborough. He spoke no English except "Peterborough", "change", and "Manchester", which is basically what his directions were telling him. He seemed to want to know if he was on the right train, and I assured him he was. I settled back into my book and was soon at Manchester. I told him we were now in Manchester, and he got off the train just behind me. I turned to make sure he was alright, and he pointed at the opposite side of the platform, asking "Peterborough?". Manchester station has about 25 platforms, probably more. It probably wasn't going to be the right platform. I took him down to the nearest departures board, but I couldn't see anything obviously bound for Peterborough. So I motioned for him to follow and went down to customer service. This was now about 9.20pm. Customer service informed me that he wasn't getting to Peterborough that night, and showed me a timetable for a 7.30am train the next day. How to explain that with no English? So I took the timetable, highlighted possible trains, and noted on a different piece of paper which times they were leaving.

I'm not sure if he was disappointed or even really understood that he wasn't getting to Peterborough that night. I wished him luck, and we went our separate ways.

I found myself considering his predicament as the night wore on, just who was he? Who gave him the instructions for Peterborough? What was he doing in the UK? Why didn't he have any English? Sure, he was "foreign" and of some Asian descent, but he didn't look particularly refugee-like. He had the air (and the hair) of a Tibetan monk, but what placed him on a train arriving at Manchester? And beyond the past, what of his future? Where did he sleep? Should I have offered him to share my hotel room? Or find him accommodation? I have no idea how much money he had - I didn't even see a train ticket. Do we as humans owe a lot more compassion for each other? Should have I taken another 30 minutes to get him sorted? Who else was going to help him along his way?

Where is he now? Did he sleep on a bench at the train station? Was he cold? He had no baggage to speak of. I think I'll be wondering these things for a while.

I cabbed all of a few minutes to the hotel and settled in. I don't like to complain, but gosh, what a shitty room. The mattress was so collapsed it was bowed, the sheets weren't fitted properly (no "hospital corners") and well, it was just unkempt. Even lying on the bed to watch TV was uncomfortable.

Still, it was just a place to sleep, and after watching some trash TV, that's what I did.

I slept well, and checked out around 8am. Breakfast was a latte and a pain au chocolat down at a Starbucks where I spent a pleasant hour or so people watching from the window. Gosh these people dress funny. I saw jackets I wouldn't even wear trout fishing.

I love people watching - it reminds me of the diversity of humanity. The UK is incredibly multi-cultured now, I felt I could still spot the real "locals", but there is such an ethnicity diversity here now. Probably more so in Manchester than there is in Edinburgh. It's incredible to watch them all walking past the window.

I wandered down to the train station and sorted my tickets to Smithy Bridge, the whole reason I was down here in the first place.

One of my favourite things about taking the train is that again you see an incredible diversity. In cities the tracks often past some of the dodgier areas. Not deliberately I'm sure; the areas become dodgy by virtue of being close to constant noisy trains.

Manchester is no exception, but soon the train was in the countryside, complete with horses, cows, canals and yes, even people trout fishing. Smithy Bridge came up soon and I left the train.

A wonderful hour or so was spent with the kittens. I was in love with the little girl as I thought I might be - beautiful colouring and a wild nature. Very cute. I'd been a little hesitant about only having one kitten at home alone whilst I was working, and had been entertaining the idea of getting two.

I certainly found another kitten to fall in love with, there were other colours and patterns that were nice, but the cheeky personality of one of the boys caught my eye. In the end I'd settled on the brother/sister pair. But during my time there, I also got to spend time with the adult cats, and honestly, they're huge.

They're huge, and practically human. Children. Two kittens is fine, but two adult cats with everything that goes along with it? Can I divide my love and attention between the two of them? Can I imagine two adult cats on my bed, or running down the hall wanting to be fed?

I think now, after some consideration, that I'm a one-cat-person. Just me and her, against the world. My companion that waits for me to get home, who gives her love to me as I do her. Maine Coons are people probably more so than any other breed - I'd probably get jealous if I had two. And so would they.

A quick return train brings me back to Manchester, where I'm now sitting on Canal St enjoying a beer. Well, two beers as apparently it's two-for-one day. I don't normally drink during the day, and now two pints?

Soon I'll be heading back to the train station, and back to Edinburgh. It's been a good trip. I think I'm happiest when I'm travelling. My brain is more active, I write. I think about things. I ponder the world, and I people watch much more.

I love the people watching - finding characters for stories. Reinforcing the diversity. Realising there are similar stories and lives even in disparate people. Realising I can find the same stories, but I don't have to write about the same people. The key themes I always come back to - loss, identity - these are common themes. Are my "normal" characters even real? Aren't they just plastic cobbled-together façades of the life I always thought I wanted? Should I write my stories for plastic fake people that I've aspired to be, but have known all along don't really exist?

Or should I write about real people? Should I embed my stories in real people? Will my audiences still see the stories that I have to see? I think they will, and I think I can only benefit from learning to let go from the false ideals I've always clung to.

Speaking of which - I emailed Craig last night. He accused me of not replying to his emails. I just don't know what to say - to be angry, or sad. To love, or to hate. Better to shut up and move on, really.

A long relationship with Craig is just as much a fallacy as those empty shells of people I always thought I wanted to be. Move on, Marc. Find what's real.

Time to get my train.

Manchester Picadilly now for a short while. Starbucks in one hand, pen in the other. Ubiquitous iPod. Two pints down, is this happiness natural? It is actually a great day, somewhere behind the low thin cloud cover is a sun that's doing a pretty admirable effort to keep the light bright and the day warm. I had a couple of travelers ask me for directions - probably realising their folly the moment I opened my mouth. Still, they walked away with my googled map of Manchester which I no longer need.

Two people were comfortable enough to sit next to me on my table at the bar as I wrote and drank my two pints. Or "cheeky" enough as they put it. Was pleasant to hear their weekend catchup banter.

I love these moments with strangers, getting over our seemingly innate embarrassments to ask for something - directions, to share a seat, the way to Peterborough.

If I had my way I'd wander around foreign cities waiting for these little interactions, this fresh material.

Is my life all about what's new? The new friend, the new relationship, new city, country, job, life? There's a wide gap in my life, between the old and the new. The fixed routines and habits, and the craving of new experiences. As I get older the gap gets wider. My friends I've either known for 10 years, or six months. What is it about the middle ground that upsets me so? Why do I seek routine in the small things so much? The same coffee at the same time every day. "Fish Fridays" at work, which closely follow my regular Thursday lunch habits. I cling to these small things, yet I run from the wider experiences. One semester was enough for uni, after that I'd "done" it. As a contractor I love that I'm always changing jobs, bosses, buildings, commuting. I've lived in two continents, four countries, fix cities, and god knows how many houses. Does ordering the same coffee every morning give me the routine I quite clearly lack in the rest of my life?

Time to go find my platform.