I have passed.
Really, truly, passed.
We got to Manchester at about one in the morning, and parked right outside the prison. There does not seem to be any rule about not camping in the road outside, although you will not be surprised to hear that we were the only camper van there. It is not a popular holiday destination.
I had coffee and horrible churning anxiety when I woke up, and we took the dogs for a soothing walk. The dogs thought Manchester was every bit as splendid as the fells at the back of our house, and bounded along the icy streets very cheerfully. They sniffed and milled about with their tails wagging happily, and we looked and looked at the alien landscape. There are so many interesting and exotic things to see, it is every bit as foreign as going to Istanbul or Jaipur, great glass towers next to tiny shops selling unexpected things, like saris and pretend cigarettes and Thai food and body building products. I was interested in a warehouse at the back of the prison which had a sign proclaiming that its owner was somebody called Colin Khalid. It is a startling and fascinating place.
It was cold. A freezing wind blew little flecks of snow in swirling gusts, and we were glad to get back to the camper van. Then I curled up on the bed and went to sleep until it was time to go in. I liked this better than I might have enjoyed a preparatory run up and down the wintry pavements.
The training centre is at the top of three long flights of stairs. The first time I went there I was out of breath before I even got to the reception: but this time I managed it without needing supplementary oxygen, which I hoped was a good sign. I filled in all of the paperwork, and a friendly lady who had been there on my last visit remembered me and wished me luck.
There were lots of people in the waiting room, but only two of us to retake the fitness test. After a few minutes the others all filtered off somewhere else, presumably to be shouted at by pretend inmates until they became assertive.
The other girl and I trotted obediently downstairs to be examined by the nurse to make sure we were sufficiently healthy to undergo a fitness test, and once she had determined that both of us could stand upright and breathe we went off to change.
The other girl told me that it was her fifth attempt at the test, and that she was desperately hoping to pass this time. She was friendly and chatty, and I thought that she might make a kindly prison officer.
We hopped up and down in the chilly gym.
This time it was a very different instructor.
He tested our grip with a little dial machine, and then made us warm up for the bleep test. This was splendid, because there was no chance to do this last time, and it is difficult to run fast when you are cold.
We jogged cautiously up and down the gym until he decided our blood was sufficiently circulating, and then it was the Moment of Bleeping Truth.
I cannot describe the foreboding with which I stood waiting on the red line.
Do not imagine that all of my hard work paid off and I sailed through it.
I struggled and panted and my knee hurt. It was terribly, terribly hard.
The other girl gave up halfway through.
I was horrified, and shouted at her to carry on, but she couldn’t. She shrugged and collapsed on the bench at the side, shoulders heaving.
I struggled on.
The instructor joined me for the last few lengths, running up and down with me and shouting encouragement. There were three lengths to go, then two, then the last, and then, gasping and stumbling, I had done it.
I could hardly breathe.
After that came the riot shield bit, and the speed and agility test, but I knew I could do these because I had done them last time.
I almost didn’t manage the speed bit, because my knee hurt: but in the end I did, in three seconds less than last time.
The instructor high-fived me and grinned.
I had passed.
I could barely walk down the stairs, but I did not want to look as though I was limping. You are not supposed to take the test if you have got any injuries.
Once round the corner I hobbled back to the camper van and collapsed on the bed.
Mark took the dogs out whilst I lay back and examined my sore knee self-pityingly, and then we drove into the centre of town to have a celebratory restaurant lunch.
It was so very cold that we did not spend long wandering about. We found a civilised-looking restaurant run by a person called Jamie Oliver, of whom I have heard, he writes cookery books. We dived into the warmth eagerly. His restaurant is rather splendid, like eating in a church, with a great domed ceiling and pillars and oak panelling.
I can tell you unequivocally that he is a superb cook. The food was absolutely excellent, and I will happily purchase one of his cookery books if I see them anywhere, and might even have a look in the library tomorrow. I had pasta with cheese, and Mark had a steak, and it was very good indeed.
We normally share food and exchange plates half way through if we are eating different things, but we both liked our own so much that we kept it to ourselves and hoped that the other one would forget. We had gorgeous puddings and a glass of beautifully smooth red wine, and I tottered sleepily outside feeling as though all of my limbs had turned to warm liquid.
We had a snooze in the camper van before we set off for home.
I have passed.
