My previous experiences of riding the Met have been somewhat colourful.
Think - a fight, a man throwing up, a man wandering from carriage to carriage laughing hysterically to himself in such an unnerving fashion I actually got off the tram and waited for the next one, and tearaway teens using the overhead hand rails to do pull ups.
So, it was with slight trepidation I boarded the metro at Whitefield to set off on a jaunt around Manchester, armed with my £4.90 day pass to observe how friendly we are up North - and how we compare to the London Underground, where it is well documented people never, ever talk to each other.
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In 2016 the perception of the London commuter as unfriendly and unapproachable was bolstered by the overwhelming reaction of horror to a campaign that tried to encourage tube passengers to chat.
Badges emblazoned with the question “Tube chat?” were distributed on the tube network in a bid to make the experience more neighbourly.
But such was the horror among regular users, many started their own counter campaign - with badges that boasted: "Don't Even Think About Talking To Me."
But 'Up North' aren't we all supposed to be warm, welcoming, eager for a chat and full of camaraderie? I was about to find out....
A few stops in on my initial journey I disembarked to change direction and was approached by an elderly couple at the station asking for advice on how to use their travel pass. There was nothing on the screen that allowed them to use it and they were flummoxed by the touch in, touch out machine.
I did my best, looking at their concessionary passes and trying to find some clue on the smudgy screen in front of me, but all I could offer them was reassurance that, as they were only travelling one stop, it was unlikely they would get asked, and if they did - they could just explain their plight. They hardly looked like wrong 'uns.
From there, a pleasant little chat about Covid and the lockdown and the reason they hadn't left the house and used their passes for so long ensued - with them thanking me grandly for my efforts to help them.
So far, so good. All very friendly indeed.
Unfortunately, it was a false alarm. As I boarded the next tram I was struck by the sea of heads in front of me - all bowed, every single person, as though in a weird, apocalyptic movie, staring, silently at the mobile phone in the palm of their hands.
Itching to reach for my own phone, but aware I was being forced to be friendly, I looked around and around the tram, seeing if I could make some eye contact - nada.
Ninety nine per cent of commuters were wearing masks, ear phones and transfixed with their smartphones and those not wearing masks seemed even more reticent to make eye contact - possibly through fear of being judged.
One elderly gentleman was going all old school, reading a newspaper and doing the crossword puzzle, while a couple cooed and fussed over two little tots in multi- coloured wooly hats and their two babies in a twin buggy - fair enough, no time for conversing with strangers.
Giving up momentarily, I gazed out of the windows and recalled how once, in my heyday, I boarded the tube in London, dressed as a sexy schoolgirl and, along with my glamorous showbiz reporter friend, who looked like an everyday version of Angelina Jolie, we headed to Po Na Na's infamous 'School Disco.'
On that occasion I seemed to recall enough heads turning to cause what I feared may have been a surge in whiplash claims in that particular carriage.
Sobering then, that many moons later, hair suddenly styled courtesy of Storm Dudley and wearing a black puffa coat with a damp fur trim, my invisibility was such I felt I could use it as a super-power.
A young woman, inexplicably choosing to stand up near an empty seat, looked over in my direction, so I smiled at her - nothing - she looked straight through me. A few seconds later she looked towards me again, almost, but not quite making eye contact.
I attempted another smile, but again it was as though I didn't exist.
I placated myself with the notion that she was possibly blind and valiantly riding the metro without a white stick - at which point she pulled out a mobile phone and started furiously texting.
Quite enjoying the whole 'rolling stone' feel of getting off and on trams at whim, I circled from Piccadilly back to Victoria a few times, attempting to smile at people whose faces were stuck to a screen, until I was reminded of Einstein's saying that only an idiot would do the same thing over and over again and expect different results.
At this point I gazed again at the window, this time to check if I actually had a reflection, and found myself feeling strangely nostalgic for the lovely, elderly couple - as well as my sexy school disco outfit and the follies of youth.
But then I was in luck - a middle aged man, head bowed to his phone, along with the rest of the commuters, decided, for some reason, to move seats. Meaning.... he had to LOOK UP.
As he got up and passed me I smiled broadly. He gave me some side eye, a half-hearted attempt at a kind of semi-smile and (maybe I imagined it) quickened his step.
Downhearted, I disembarked the tram at Victoria and started to forlornly read the sign for the next one.
As I did so, a guy in his 30's passed me looking at his phone, looked up at me, back down to his phone, up and at me again and then smiled pleasantly.
Result.
Bolstered by the sudden human interaction, I boarded the tram to East Didsbury with much more gusto.
Now tea time, it was peak rush hour time from Victoria station to Didsbury and the tram was pretty full, with quite a few cool, hipster looking people heading back to their leafy South Manchester suburbs.
There were no fights, or throwing up, or tearaway teens - just trendy earphones and North Face jackets and on trend trainers. Just a cool, detached indifference to anyone else around and a perfunctory Metrolink ride home.
As I got off at Didsbury I reflected that no, in my opinion, we weren't any friendlier than commuters on the London Underground.
Technology seems to have helped cut people off from each other and the only successful connections on the Met appeared to be with mobile phone networks. Listening ears were reserved purely for Spotify.
Sighing at the sad isolation of it all ....I put in my ear phones, straightened my mask, reached for my mobile and headed out of the station.
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