As a man once sent for a fertility test by a new doctor called Cockshoot, I should never be surprised by coincidence.

I’m riding around south Manchester at the moment, piecing together a geography I know radially from a childhood of car journeys in and out of the city centre, into a geography I’m beginning to live and cycle laterally.

This morning a memory was triggered by a street called Ballbrooke Avenue. Turning off my route a couple of streets back and a few streets in, I found this house (on the right) where once I kicked a ball and broke a stained glass window.

Close friends of my parents lived here, the kind that gave you birthday presents. I remember the road name and house number from writing envelopes for all the thank you letters, and the one apology.

And here, this morning, in the street lies a ball. Inviting me.