IT'S important when reading this article to apply Manchester Traffic Despair (MTD) to your own specific situation. Ford Ka, Maserati, Peugeot, Mini, or the last of the Austin Maestros. In the words of The Dark Lord (aka David Cameron) "We're all in this together".
You'll start by hating Chris Moyles
We're not. Some people have helicopters.
How to spot MTD: The mornings are darker and more depressing than ever before, your life has come to a standstill and you don't feel like you are actually getting anywhere on the road commute into Manchester City Centre.
That's because you're not actually getting anywhere – you're getting flipping nowhere, and because you're getting flipping nowhere, that Wally trying to pull out from a T-junction ahead of you is getting flipping nowhere either.
Early signs of MTD: There's no easily defined journey from one spot on Deansgate to the next. You complain endlessly to friends, but no one is interested.
Family will tell you to pull yourself together and get a life. You tell them you had a life before MTD, but now MTD has struck your life is over. It is. You haven't been out for weeks because you are sweating in your car for four hours a day and smell like a sheep.
THE SEVEN STAGES OF MTD
1. Shock and Denial
Work begins at 9.00am. You leave your house at 7.30am a few miles outside of Manchester City Centre. There's plenty of time, you say.
But then you hit an INSTANT traffic jam. You use a tried and tested mantra: 'It's a red light up ahead and it will clear soon'.
Wrong. You'll learn.
30 minutes later you need to pee: you are five minutes from home, but can't actually do a U-turn.
For weeks you've been in denial. It's the sink hole(s), the rain, the students... then suddenly reality strikes. Oh My God. I'm doomed.
2. Pain and Guilt
When MTD pain hits, it hurts. You cast your thoughts back: who is to blame? You'll start by hating Chris Moyles. Five minutes later you'll hate yourself. I'm useless. I can't even get to work on time. I'm such a loser. You question the things you did or didn't do that morning – Skip the coffee you tell yourself. Just get out of bed and drive! Get ready at work! The road ahead fills you with terror. THERE IS NO ESCAPE.
You'll start by hating Chris Moyles, then yourself...3. Anger and Bargaining
Frustration gives way to anger. This is not your fault! Your hate turns to your fellow passengers and you lash out, ranting left and right.
Is it necessary to take so long in the shower? Iron your clothes the night before; get off Twitter; it's because of YOU that we are in this mess. How could you do this to me? We're going to be here for hours! I'm getting fat! Then the apologies begin: I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. Tomorrow let's get up at 5am...
And so you cancel plans with friends and go to bed at 8.30pm to rise at 5am. You don't reply to text messages and emails because you can't type and drive at the same time. Friends label you arrogant and accuse you of being illusive. They cajole and beg you to meet up with them on a Tuesday night in the Northern Quarter. One day, they give up.
Now you feel isolated. You remember all the times you told your London friends how wonderful Manchester was because you can drive everywhere. Now they've all moved here and turned the M60 into the M25.
4. The Upward Turn
You adjust to your new miserable life. You wear bitterness like a glove. You complain incessantly and enjoy one traffic story after another. You think your work colleagues appreciate loud stories about the 'Worst Traffic Jam Ever'.
They don't. They want you to shut up.
When you eventually meet other MTD people your mood lightens. You rant together and swap traffic-dodging tips. You bond over trolling Manchester City Council.
Deansgate: Hell5. Acceptance
28 days later you are happy with your miserable life. The traffic will never ease so you decide to move to Ancoats, or Castlefield. Your new friends are Zoopla and Right Move. You start a spreadsheet. You get your 5ft-tall family members to lie head-to-foot on the floor so you can see what a 10ft x 10ft dining-lounge with kitchenette actually looks like.
It looks small, my friend. Small.
You choose to leave your family behind.
6. Hope
Divorce is expensive so you scrap that idea. But there is a way forward. You sell your car and buy a bike – no ordinary bike: it's a £800 bike on the 'cycle to work' scheme. Bargain. Oh, it's not. You don't actually own it. No matter. You are mobile. Now you are speeding through the streets on your hybrid Cannondale. Life resumes and you finally meet your mates in the Northern Quarter. How much better you look, how fit you are, they coo. Welcome back. You leave The Castle at 10.30pm after just two pints. Your eyes scan the streets. You are certain you left your bike JUST THERE.
Some thieving git has taken it. So you slope off to wait in line for the next Metrolink. Only to be told there's a replacement bus service...
7. Resignation
Your arse is three inches wider from sitting down for fourteen hours a day; your suit smells like a dashboard; your skin has the sallow tinge of someone who hasn't seen daylight for months; your boss hates you for being late; and you aren't pulling your weight at home. The only escape is to escape: forget Zoopla, you turn to privateislandsonline.com. And there it is, Sweet Island, your own luscious getaway in British Columbia, Canada, for half the price of a three-bedroomed terrace in Eccles: no people, no cars, no traffic.
Sweet Island: no people, no cars, no traffic@Maria_Roberts - read more from Maria:
- 8 Baffling Things About Manchester's Metrolink
- Triathlon: Doing It The First Time
Or take a look at her blog: singlemotherontheverge.com
