I want to fly to Manchester, England. I want to walk the soggy Salford streets or whatever else I could do to feel authentic. Tripping over cobblestones under a wet newspaper sky, trying to absorb whatever daylight there is, I’ll blow breath clouds out before me and look sideways at people. I may even start smokinig. And the whole time, I want to be saying, under my breath, in a subdued, yet sensational voice, “so much to answer for.”