When the first thud hit the side of the black cab I thought it was some drunk trying to get a ride and not seeing the
engaged light on. But in an instant it was obvious something else was going on when the front passenger window
smashed sending shards of glass over the driver and two little hands came grasping into the taxi.
With the danger so near, the driver pulled away from the red light we had been momentarily stopped at in Gorton as the two hoodies pelted as fast as their little legs would take them through the cover of the dark park.
Welcome to the rather dramatic end to a night out in Manchester.
It had all started so well.
Us ladies tucked into a veritable feast of a meal at Pesto on Deansgate. It’s not somewhere I’ve been before which is perhaps a little odd seeing as its just yards away from our offices but I’ve never been that attracted by the menu. If I fancy pizza I’ll make it to Croma and I haven’t seen many favourable reviews.
But, although it’s hard to judge a restaurant by its Christmas menu, it was good enough to persuade me to try it again some time.
Dish after dish arrived at our table – all tasty, well-prepared and presented. There were the usual breads, crostini, brushetta and olives but also some more unusual offerings such as mozarrella rice balls and a good selection of meat stews, fish skewers and vegetarian plates.
It sells it self as an Italian done tapas style, which is a bit confusing, but if you forget the marketing spiel and just sample the dishes, Pesto did well for a large party with varied tastes.
Of course the company was good and so the food and drink does take a back seat.
Just two minus points – too dark and the music too loud but overall it provided the backdrop for a good night out.
Then it was time to go home.
Trusting to Northern Rail turned out to be a disaster as I sat patiently waiting only to have the train cancelled because there was “no driver”. How can there be no driver? How did the train arrive without a driver? Is there no-one drawing up rotas for drivers any more?
So left with little choice – the train bosses don’t provide any alternatives obviously feeling that leaving women on their own late at night in Piccadilly Station is acceptable – I caught a cab with another disgruntled train passenger going my way.
The rest you know – a highway robbery and then finally home. Thankfully the driver was only slightly cut and the hoodies failed to get away with his sat nav or any cash which I suppose is some small consolation.
Perhaps I would have been better off tucked up at home with Nigella’s pies after all.