Stalybridge

"Return ticket to Manchester Piccadilly" I said brightly but not, it appeared, brightly enough to constitute a little ray of sunshine in the ticket office of Chorley station. I paid for my ticket when the ticket person indicated the card machine, shortly before passing me my tickets through the little trough in the counter. 

"Is it the 1305?" I asked, hoping to provide an opportunity for us to part on cheery terms but I was repaid only with a weary nod. Well, maybe I wouldn't enjoy working in a ticket office either.

On the train, I did some email, and made a phone call, occasionally looking up to check on the train's progress. As we moved into the city, I packed my things, and as the train pulled into Victoria, I was ready to disembark. We sat there for a while. So long, in fact, that I wondered if the train terminated there but a quick peep 'round showed other passengers still reading their books, looking at their phones, and dozing.

Eventually we moved off. By this time, I had taken my book out and I was just moving to put it away when the guard appeared and checked my ticket. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked a manner far more friendly than those words would suggest. "Piccadilly" I answered confidently, at least for the first two or three syllables, as I saw a sad look cross his face.

"This train doesn't go to Piccadilly".

And so it was, after a lot more friendly help from my new - albeit temporary - friend, I found myself on the platform at Stalybridge, waiting for a train back into Manchester that would stop at Piccadilly. In the end I was 40 minutes late meeting my friend, Ian, for lunch. (Thankfully he's a laid back sort of character and had been quite happy to wait for me, while reading the paper.)