In all likelihood, that will be the last time I ever see James again.

I’m sitting on the train. We’ve just pulled out of the station and I’m being told that the refreshments counter is now open. I could murder a glass of wine.

James is probably sitting in the station bar now. He came with me on the bus to town. It was awful.

We sat in silence as Manchester passed us by; the sets which have been the backdrop to my life over the past seven years – East Didsbury, Fallowfield, university and finally, Piccadilly Gardens.

As the bus sauntered through the traffic, I saw landmarks from my time in the city. Insignificant things: bars I have fallen out of, pissed off my face with Molly. Restaurants which have been the scenes of many a terrible date. Places I had visited with James.

We walked in silence to the train station. We examined the departures board. I don’t remember saying anything until I turned to get on the train.

“I guess this is goodbye,” I said, staring at my shoes. I wanted to cry.

“I guess,” he replied.

I got on the train and found a seat. He was still waiting by the door, looking in at me through the window. He mouthed something, but I couldn’t make it out. The train had started moving.

In three hours and twenty-three minutes, I will step off the train in Edinburgh. I guess I will need to register a new blog name.

Christ, I need a cigarette.

This whole situation is ridiculous. Pointless. Why am I leaving? What can Edinburgh offer me that Manchester can’t?

This is impulsive.

This was taken during my first week in Manchester. Molly, Leonie and I had just registered for university and we decided to take a trip to town to explore. I remember a ten minute debate as to whether we could try and cross the fountains without getting wet. Leonie decided against it.

This is a wonderful building. I just never had the chance to go inside. I passed it every day for three years while at University. Shame really.

I dread to think how much money and how many hours I’ve spent in here. I remember coming for the first time with Molly. We spent the day chatting about my new boyfriend at the time. I can’t even remember his name.

I wish I could have lived in the Northern Quarter. It’s one of the most vibrant areas of the city, full of strange murals and graffiti. This shot comes from an afternoon spent exploring the back roads with a digital camera.

This was taken during my last day as a Fallowfield resident. Molly and I had just finished throwing our worldly possessions into the back of a tiny Mini Metro. We were coming out of the house to find the pub next door had installed an outside drinking area in the back of a truck.

This was after my first shift in the store. I was tired, my legs were hurting and I’d suffered a torrent of verbal abuse off Darren for not spotting a shop lifter. This sight instantly cheered me up.

Molly and I spent an afternoon in the Museum and Science and Industry watching planes on the live video from Manchester airport. We made plans to travel to Europe next summer. I’m not sure what will happen to that now.

This was taken just before my first date with James. It seems so long ago.

Leonie and I had drinks over the weekend. She’s leaving on Monday for a new position in London. We sat and reminisced about the times we spent together. She’s so different to the girl I met at university, but, I guess people change. At the end of the evening, we hugged and said our goodbyes. I have promised to visit her once she has settled in.

And this was the scene in my bedroom this morning. I still haven’t packed everything away yet. I can’t bear to take down all the photographs from over my bed. It’ll be one of the last things I put away.

My train leaves this afternoon.

I’ve decided to leave Manchester. For good.

Spoke to my mother today. She’s desperate to get me back home to Edinburgh. Apparently, there’s work going at my uncle’s insurance firm. It’s not a great job – postmaster – but it’s a way to pay the bills.

There’s nothing for me in Manchester any longer. No strings. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a boyfriend. I have £10.32 in my bank account.

All I have here are memories.

For four years I’ve been retracing my steps; trying to wring every last ounce of pleasure from my life as an undergraduate. It’s time to grow up. Be more like Leonie. Leave. Get a proper job.

It’s funny. When I came to Manchester, I was determined to make something of myself. I had friends back home – we all do – who decide to stay at home after school and college. They got married. They had a family. I didn’t want to settle for that. I was a fool.

On Monday, I will return to Scotland with nothing to show for my seven years away. I don’t even think I have my degree certificate. I certainly don’t have a Scottish accent. That went a while ago.

Over the weekend, I will pack up my things – my Dad is coming down to collect them sometime in the next week or so.

I will miss Manchester. I’ve always felt a vibe here, a unique atmosphere I’ve never really experienced anywhere else. Certainly not in Edinburgh.

This is rubbish.

James and I have broken up.

It started on Tuesday when he invited me over for dinner.

He really has a lovely flat. Shining wooden floor, clear white walls. What you’d expect from a home in the middle of the city. It’s a little too minimalist for my taste, but it has a lovely view which overlooks the Northern Quarter. The morning after we slept together, I made a coffee, went on the balcony and just watched the city waking up. It was beautiful.

While he finished off cooking, I had a look around. There’s not that much in James’ flat. It’s bare; as if he’s just moved in and there’s a box of trinkets lying around somewhere waiting to be unpacked.

That’s why it immediately stuck out. It was by the side of his bed. Bright blue. He’s told me about the box of Samantha’s old things.

I don’t know why I started to look through it. I guess I just wanted to understand him a little more; what he went through and what she meant to him.

He found me sitting on the bed, examining an old camera.

My memory isn’t reliable. You know when things kind of happen in a blur? A flash? We fought and he shouted. I left shell-shocked, the smell of our dinner following me out of the flat.

He didn’t answer my calls.

Yesterday, I went around to his flat. The door was open and I walked in. I followed the sound of voices coming from his bedroom and I stayed and listened for a while.

I’ve had people cheat on me before, but what really hurt was that they spoke like a couple. As if they’d known each other for years. I’ve tried so hard to get to know him. When I first met James, he was closed, unresponsive. Gradually though, I’ve gotten him to open up. Listening him talk to that stranger as if they’d been seeing each other forever…

I left in tears. I never cry.

I don’t want to hear from him again. I don’t know what possessed him to do such a dreadful thing to me. I don’t want to know.

What hurts the most, is that I thought we had something. We got on well. Better than any relationship I’ve had. But that’s over now.

I just want to move on.

Today has been a very productive day.

Since I turned 27 last week, I’ve found myself taking on tasks I wouldn’t have contemplated a month ago. Today, I’m the proud owner of a dentist, a doctor and all my bank statements now get delivered to my home address, rather than my mother’s abode in Edinburgh.

I’m not entirely sure what persuaded me to take on these little odd jobs. I guess I can’t be a student forever. As much as I’d like to be.

Leonie brought it up during my birthday dinner on Sunday evening. The pile of old papers and bills on the bookshelf got a couple of non-too-kind references during dessert.

It wouldn’t have normally bothered me. But with James there, I felt embarrassed. I’ve been to James’ flat several times and there isn’t a thing out of place. Despite all he’s been through, he’s still managed to keep everything under control.

Maybe it’s time I started taking responsibility for my own life.

In other news, Darren is still being a complete and utter tosspot. Since he discovered my new relationship, he has been showering me with attention. Not the flowers and cuddly bunnies kind of attention.

He’s been beastly to me at work; adding extra shifts to my rota and making me stay behind after work for stock taking. I think it is his attempt to spend more time with me.

I’d like to point out, at this juncture, that it was Darren who decided he wanted us to end our (brief) romantic dance. Maybe it’s time to start looking for a more permanent position somewhere else.

Anyway. That’s another conversation for another day.

Tonight, I’m off to James’ for a meal. Things have been going incredibly well with us and I’m determined to make this relationship last longer than the typical two-week forays I usually contribute to.

Fingers crossed.

Today, we tried to rectify that.

Urbis

Manchester Art Gallery

Manchester Museum

Later, at a bar, he explained that he didn’t really leave his flat.

“Ever,” I asked.

“Not really. I spend most of my time at home or in the train station.”

“What do you do there?”

“Drink, mainly.”

Astonishing.

Manchester is full of sights and sounds. Experiences and adventures. I told him I would take him out and show him what he’s been missing.

Speaking of which, I’m going to be late. Must dash.

There were treats…

A Zippy Father Christmas which would have scared me to death when I was little.

A weird windmill thing (I’m guessing that man is Santa?)

And a singing reindeer which reminded me a little of Stephen Fry

It was fantastic to spend more time with James.

He was telling me how he decided to skip work for the afternoon to come and see me. I hope he doesn’t get in trouble.

Inspired by his complete lack of knowledge of Manchester’s cultural attractions, we’ve arranged to meet up again tomorrow.

I can’t wait. I love the idea of being an unofficial Manchester tour guide.

I wish they would hurry up and finish Media City so I could apply for my dream job

I really wish I didn’t have to go and work for that weasel again tomorrow.

I wish I went to the theatre more

I wish it were Christmas

I wish I didn’t have such rubbish working hours. There’s never anyone around to share my adventures with.

I didn’t really know what to expect from today.

My sorties to the bereavement group didn’t really have any purpose: a stupid thought I had after two glasses of wine. .

I just wanted the people there to know that I empathised with them; that there was someone there who they could talk to. I couldn’t not try and help.

As ever, Leonie was right. I couldn’t help these people. How could I?

I didn’t understand what they were going through. I’m scared for the day when Fat Cat pops his clogs. How am I going to empathise with anyone who’s been through what these people have experienced?

Today, I found out how I could help.

I had met James – one of the regulars from the group – completely by accident. Coincidence to the nth degree. We met for a coffee this afternoon.

Naturally, I lost all power of conversation. Talk to Molly, talk to Leonie (actually don’t. She’ll be mean) but, I’m never lost for words. In this busy coffee shop in the Northern Quarter, I ran out of vowels.

I had so much to say. I wrote a list of questions I wanted to ask.

The only thing I could think to ask was if he remembered to bring an umbrella to work.

And then, the list didn’t matter any more.

It’s unusual for anyone to actually have a conversation with me. Normally, I’m desperate to throw stories at people: Tell them about my day, my week and my month. I try so hard to share every tale I have in my short-term memory.

With this man, I just sat back and listened. I hung on every word he said. His stories were so much more interesting than anything I could have ever said.

And I listened. When it was over, I snook back into the cafe and wrote down everything I could remember on an old receipt, in case I ever see him again.

I hope he texts me back.