Have you heard? It's in the stars. Every year I collide with bras.

A few years ago now, a minor miscalculation of timing plus a set of lost keys resulted in me being pursued down the road by hundreds of women in their underwear not once, but twice in the same evening. It's not every day I get to say that, and you might thing I'm making it up. I'm not. The original story is here.

Anyway, having now encountered the London Moonwalk several times over the years, I keep a weather eye on the dates of the event just so I can be sure not to be striding home at 2am when hordes of ladies in their scanties take to their streets. Not particularly heterosexual of me, I know, but I do feel much safer.
Anyway, the London Moonwalk this year was this weekend just gone, and as I was in Manchester I felt that I was pretty safe from accusations of being a Peeping Tom.

I should have known. The Moonwalk has become so popular it has spawned regional events.

Walking home in the early hours through Manchester the other night I was alerted by the ground shaking and plaster falling from the roofs around me. In a car a glass of water began to ripple as, thundering over the horizon, the hundreds of women taking part in the Manchester moonwalk descended purposefully upon me.
And ever single last one of them gave me a little, contemptuous look that said nothing more than: "Ah! A travelling pervert."