Some regard February as one of the bleakest months, a hungover, dog tired month following in the aftermath of all those lights and milestones and celebrations. But the streets of Manchester seemed as busy as usual, though there was a deflated air about the place.

Manchester is a city. Of course it is. But whenever we venture there, we remark that we are “Going into town,” which is what my wife and I, along with our son and daughter, did that particular afternoon.

Soon enough after a few retail stops, our stomachs began to dictate the pace, and we called in a place in Piccadilly Gardens for lunch. Although tourists seemed thin on the ground, from our vantage point we could see a few eager beavers clamouring aboard the Manchester Wheel. What to them must be a prominent landmark, convenient for getting their bearings, is to us but a regular…