From the Piccadilly tram

I have long wanted to go to work on a tram, through Salford.

I write to you from Media City tram stop. I am bypassing the “Lowry Corporate wi-fi network” though the thought of Lowry endorsing  mobile blogging appeals. Instead, courtesy of a Vodafone 3G connection and an HTC googlephone- recently refreshed by my Nigerian chums in Brentford (thanks girls), I bring you …From the Piccadilly Tram.

It is a blue morning – not a blue Monday. This tram is rattling along to Salford Quays , along the dockside where the empire plied its trade, where today rusting gantries tip their hooks.

Who says Britain is broken? This is the most glorious September morning – warm, windless and the Mancunians and Salfordians are beaming from behind their designer sunglasses.

It is 7.30am. Last night Manchester United were saved from the ignominy of a home defeat against some Swiss part-timers by a late Ashley Cole goal. Old Trafford sits on the horizon as sullen as its manager. Today I do not begrudge them their success.

To all who read this silly thing, I wish you the morning I have had after  a night in hotel stupid – replete with  ritual struggle agains remote control. The prospect of a day with our Mancunian actuarial crew discussing the fate of Seafarers, the plight of the unions, the state of the nation and whether Ed Milliband is fit to lead us.

I wish you well my friends – from the Piccadilly tram.

About henry tapper

Founder of the Pension PlayPen,, partner of Stella, father of Olly . I am the Pension Plowman
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