We stepped off the train into the fine, soft Manchester rain. We were still inside Piccadilly Station but the drops were seeping through the roof. It felt like the perfect reception – my son and I were in town to see the singer Morrissey, poet laureate of northern melancholia.

By the time we got outside, clouds had lifted and the sunlight catching the raindrops on a tram turned it into a gem-encrusted chariot.