It’s 2.50am in the morning on the 4th January and I’m at Manchester bus station. My journey began in Belfast 13 hours earlier and it has got another 3 hours to run. The novelty of listening to a Stuart MacBride thriller while actually being able to see the dark Scottish rain wore off long ago. It’s cold, wet and all I want to do is crawl into bed.
What on earth led me here? And am I mad?