Not so grim oop north

A week in Manchester has taught Paul Carter that he's more at home playing away

As I'm sure you will all definitely have read (right?) a few pages prior to this one, I recently spent a fun-filled week away in the north – Manchester to be more precise – covering the Paralympic World Cup for this fine organ.

It was a slightly scary experience, mainly because it's the longest period in my adult life I've spent outside London and the Home Counties without being on holiday. And as much as I love Manchester, I don't think spending a week there can constitute a holiday in anyone's book. (If you do happen to holiday there regularly, please don't write in.)

As you may have guessed, cabin fever set in before too long. I realised I'd finally made the full transition into Alan Partridge territory when one of the hotel staff, without any trace of irony, asked if I'd "moved in". If there was a book of phrases that indicated you've been inside a budget hotel (or any hotel for that matter) for too long, and should leave immediately, that should be at number one.

I did find myself put in what they called a "disabled room" though. Unfortunately for me, my room's impairment was that it was placed next door to the laundry, or, as it sounded to me at 6am in the morning, the Battle of Britain. Clearly they were hoping that anyone requiring said room also had a hearing impairment, such was the volume of noise. I think they had the Incredible Hulk loading the dryers judging by the slamming.

Thankfully though, I found the rest of the city and its inhabitants far more inviting and friendly. Scary but friendly. People actually talked to me in the street and everything, which is something extremely alien to me. If anyone so much as asks me the time in London I instinctively feel it necessary to protect my wallet, phone and keys. The thing is, they didn't stop at merely passing the time of day, they actually offered to help me with things like getting something down from a high place, did I want my pint carrying, that kind of thing. There was one slightly surreal moment when a man said "well done" to me at about three in the afternoon. I'm not sure what I did. I must have been walking pretty superbly that day.

I thought long and hard during my northern exile looking for reasons for my new found attention, but couldn't explain the north south divide in friendliness. Maybe I was just lucky and it was bob a job week or something, I don't know.

If there was any suspicion that it was all my imagination, that was banished as soon as I got back. I had to squeeze onto a packed tube with all of my stuff, pressed into the crotch of someone carrying a guitar and wearing odd socks. London, it's good to be home.