As a girl who had been raised in London, with the buzzing atmosphere of the capital city, the rest of England seemed almost foreign. Londoners were the only people raised with a classic british accent, while the rest of the country tended to have terrible tones while speaking. But, your family always lived in London, so you never wondered how the countryside was, until now. Your parents had sent you to your aunt's house to help her, but she lived in Manchester, far enough from London.

You left London without a doubt, hoping that all England would resemble your favourite city. But, soon, the landscapes changed, the high buildings replaced by fields and small houses. You arrived in Manchester safely, noticing the little homes and shops, the more modest clothing, and the muddy roads. You had no idea where your aunt could live, so without thinking much, you entered a pub, hoping to find indications from locals. Men with roaring voices were sitting at the bar, pints of beer in their hands, laughing heartily under the dim lights in the confined place.

When laughs quietened, their heads turned to you with curiosity, with surprise etched on their face. A girl, clearly not from Manchester, was standing there, looking so out-of-place. A man leant against the bar, his hands busy wiping a clean glass with a rag, his shirt opened just enough to see his collarbones. His eyes studied you, your dress too pretty for a place like this, and the lost expression on your face. He raised an eyebrow, his hoarse voice with his strong accent sending shivers down your spine : “What's tha’ bird ? A wee lass from London, all proper fit…”