When I think of Manchester Street, I think of speed. Whenever I was there, I was in a hurry. Squeezing the maximum into a lunch hour, dashing down to Les Mills, or a night on the town. It reopened over the weekend. We drove down first, getting lost in the lostness. Yesterday I walked down it for the first time. A solar halo cast an unnecessary weirdness over what was already strange.
I remember these things:
Getting gurnard or prawns at the City Seafood Market. The nearby fish and chip shop did great lunchtime trade with workers. Plus they had proper condiments like lemon pepper.
The shoe repair guy who capped the tips of many of my kitten heels.
Dad’s work (it is gone now).
Fossicking at Smith’s Bookshop.
Dancing at Shooters and Loaded Hog. Cheap weekend breakfasts of bacon and eggs at Loaded Hog.
Megawatt. Team breakfasts, Spanish frittata. One time getting a hearty smack on the bum from a chap on my way to said breakfast. Lunches with Dad. Lunches with Kathryn (always meringues). Lunches with baby daughter, chatting to Kate.
Running down Manchester Street to Les Mills. Not running at Les Mills though, only dancing, yoga-ing, boxing, stepping …
Jimmy outside Sullivans, enticing people in for a bit of Oirish craic.
A stunning Destiny’s Child duet “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly” at Christchurch Idol.
Comics compulsion comic sifting.
Checking out ballet shoes at Dance shop, kids’ sizes but all so colourful and pretty.
The Majestic – home of several union meetings.
Many many meals with friends at Topkapi and Two Fat Indians.
More on Manchester Street: