When I went to bed last night, there was a certain amount of noise from late-night revellers, raised voices in the street and the faint thud-thud of music communicated by vibration. Fortunately, these sounds were not loud enough to stop me sleeping. I assumed that the sounds of revelry would peter out around 2 or 3 am as they had once when we found ourselves in a similar situation during a visit to Blackpool.

Imagine my surprise, then, on awaking this morning to hear the same rhythmic vibration and the same loud voices in the street. Mancunians take their revelries seriously, it seems.

This relatively benign sonic background was soon over-ridden by an altogether more nerve-grating din: that of a series of wheelie bins loaded with empty bottles being emptied into the large refuse containers at the rear of the building.

Having showered and dressed, I have to pack. This always makes me nervous even though, on a trip like this, we travel light and there are not enough items to convincingly fill my little suitcase. An apartment is worse than a hotel room because it’s bigger and there are more hiding places where objects can hide. I ought to make a list but though I tell myself that after every trip, I never actually do it.

Eventually, all is rounded up and stowed away. We take one last look around at a strangely tidy apartment. In the corridor beyond our front door, I wave my arms to trigger the motion-sensor that turns on the light. (When we first arrived, we pressed what we thought was the light switch. We later realised it was the doorbell of the flat opposite ours. Fortunately, that flat seems to be unoccupied.)

The lift takes a long time to arrive and when it does, the doors open very slowly. When Tigger presses the button, the whole panel moves slightly and the lights flicker. As the doors close with the same reluctant slowness, Tigger suggests that the apartment, the lift, the concierge to whom we hand the key, are not real – it’s all a cgi film set and now we’re leaving, it’s beginning to fade out.

In the street, I photograph the front door before it melts away for ever:

Then we walk down the road, dodging the cleaners clearing away the debris of last night and cafe staff putting out tables and chairs for the new day.

Making our way round the corner, we take up position at the stop for the number 2 free bus. This soon arrives and takes us to Piccadilly Station.

Here we have breakfast at a busy Caffè Nero, after which we check how much time we have before our train at 12:55.

Hampered as we are by our bags, we decide to go sightseeing the convenient way: aboard the faithful free bus number 2, of course!

Having completed a circuit on the 2, we have come to Hourglass, a cafe on the terrace of Piccadilly Station. From here we can watch the comings and goings of people on the station concourse below. In a while, that will be us, presenting our tickets at the glass-door barrier and hurrying to our train.

Last thoughts about Manchester? On previous visits, I have felt that I am in an unfamiliar town, lost among streets of which I have no memory. This time, in contrast, the town feels familiar. This in turn induces the knowledge that however much we have seen on this trip, there remains much more that we did not see or to which we did not have time to give to the attention it deserves. If Manchester is not yet quite on a level in my affections with Glasgow and Brussels, it has at least risen to a place somewhere near that.