I could not step into Arndale

I could not step into Arndale. 

That was my reality. 

I would always make my way there, but I could never step in.

My journey would be cut short and hit an abrupt halt. That was that. 

Strangely, last night was different.

I had just finished my dinner (Mancunian for lunch) as I left my group of travellers and made my way to Princess Street.

I was off to embark on my one year of Masters, and was feeling surprisingly optimistic about applying for jobs throughout the course of my study year. 

I took off to Princess Street as my next destination, but saw Arndale in the peripheral distance. 

As I had at least a hundred times before, I went in that direction.

I wore a Rolex watch on my wrist and black Louboutins on my feet. 

I found myself scurrying up the stairs with my heart palpitating and my Louboutins taking me as far as I could go.

I entered Arndale through those side stairs and walked by a Christmas dress gleaming in gold, with ornate and elaborate designs. 

I rushed on inside, breathless and ecstatic. 

Then I woke up. As I had at least a hundred times before. 

This time I am one step closer, I tell myself, as the same dull ache envelops the atria.