Rites of Passage and Parent’s Evening

Rites of Passage, those life events so beloved of writers, singers, painters and so often packed with platitudes. With new twins passing landmarks on a daily basis it has at times been difficult for Didsbury Son to get his Rites to the front of the queue. Over the last week we have had a glut of them to redress the balance.

The baby laughed. mark the time, the place, the weather and the cat’s latitude.

 

Last week he made his team sports debut. It was a magnificent clear winter’s day, he donned a luminous kit several sizes too big for him and was part of a team he had met once before in the dark the previous Monday. His chosen sport (for the moment) is Lacrosse. My attempts to share my love of football have failed consistently over the years.

 

Everyday I learn. The lacrosse stick is on the right, the mesh on the left is a pre-stringed Lacrosse racket

My two memories of Didsbury Son’s football career consist of turning my back for five minutes one Saturday morning in Fog Lane Park to find him swaddled by adult tracksuits shivering unhappily and… a magnificent tactical performance where he spent a whole hour moving gracefully away from the ball. It was not for him.

 

His first memory of football is seeing me – eyes staring with two fingers pressed up against the television as the cameras panned to a close-up of the opposition fans. 5 year old Didsbury Son’s only comment, “Daddy, why are you swearing at the TV?”

 

His indifference is my fault. What I saw as paternal love and exuberance was really the attempts of a dad to squeeze him into static laden shirts, learn pointless songs with refrains that make less sense than a Year 2 song (My favourite was “Tommy Tomato or Have You Ever Had a Penguin Round for Tea – classics) and of hours listening to 5Live drone on interspersed with my yelps. I have learned and am ready for the next two.

 

So Didsbury Son made his debut in “the fastest game on 2 legs” (sic) and looked magnificent. Didsbury Wife and I stood at the side of the pitch shivering quietly, a baby each for warmth and enjoyed our first ever experience of Didsbury Son in competition. I didn’t shout a single inappropriate comment. I didn’t even try and start a Mexican Wave.

These were rites stacking up by the hour. Lacrosse is not an easy sport for parents to watch initially. He wears huge padding and a helmet. I had no idea which child I was shouting for and the ball is too small and moves too fast for eyes that have long since seen their 39^th birthday. Twin Girl loved it. She bobbed around happily using her new found smile to anyone in the vicinity. Whilst Didsbury Son thought this was sibling adoration for him – in time it will be. We are back for training this week and this could be a goer.

We also had another rite – the first senior school parent’s evening. In Junior School they are a real disappointment. For anyone who went to school pre New Labour a parents’ evening was a fearful time when the best one could expect was parental indifference after a night of having all your sins laid out before them. The latent aggression of the teachers was part of the experience. The notion of schools being inclusive environments and of children mattering was as ridiculous as the notion of keeping your record collection in your phone. A bit like going to football these days – they now lack the edge of danger and fear to make them interesting.

This had the makings of an interesting evening. We had the twins with us in an unmanoeuvrable double pram amidst harassed parents and tired teachers. There had been an incident earlier that day. By the time we started I was almost looking forward to a night defending his honour before going home to be disappointed, brilliant.

What did we get?

Caring teachers who actually knew who he was and had considered him constructively. We then had enthusiastic and non-patronising comments about the twins (who barely cried and caused no fuss) and even the catering was worth a second or third circle around the room. Amid the general positivity I felt slightly cheated. They were reasonable, Didsbury Son has been doing his best and Didsbury Wife and I agreed on things and nodded at each other like a team working well together; another rite of passage.

 

Even the PE department demonstration looked good

 

 

Didsbury’s Top 13 Coffee Stops for 2013

In a move as contrived as an inclusive multi-faith Nativity play.

In a year when nothing has yet happened  beyond changing nappies, patting babies and coping with Didsbury Son’s increasing technological needs, I present my guide to Didsbury 2013.

When I say a guide, I mean Part 1; places to park your buggy, rest your feet, work quietly and catch up. Coffee, cake, work, wasting time:

 1. Airyfairy Cupcake Boutique. Like the bumblebee that represents Manchester it shouldn’t work, but it does. In the space that housed the Withington Reporter when it was part of the community is a little haven. Quirky, but not Chorlton. Friendly, but not interfering and not cheap, but worth it. The free wi-fi helps and the Lemon Poppy Cake wooed Didsbury Wife into a  relaxed hour between feeds. Still not sure what a cupcake actually is but then I’ve never really understood why clowns were funny or Thomas the Tank Engine didn’t scare children.

We dressed one twin in white, one in black and lost them on the floor. (www.airyfairycupcakes.co.uk)

2. Didsbury Deli. A little piece of The Balkans on our doorsteppes. Fearsome looking but genuinely pleasant owner reminds me of years spent running Nightime events and the staff are lovely enough to mask the eye-watering prices. The door allows for a double pram, always a good thing.

3. The Art of Tea. No room for a pram (not in a “No Room for a Crib kind of way) so is a baby-free, free wi-fi haven of uncomfy seating, indifferent service but none the less for this. The granary toast with peanut butter makes the springless sofas acceptable. The rest of the menu and the bookshop that Health & Safety forgot make them positively luxurious.

4. Didsbury Perk. A newbie, with big banquettes and some interesting art (not sure about the painting with a view from Costa Coffee including Usain Bolt and David ” The Werewolf” Weir passing each other outside Zizzi but it’s a personal thing). It is on School Lane only 8 barbers (1 furlong = a bushell = a barber on School Lane) away from AiryFairy and The Metro Stop and it has a musical link to RNCM. It’s also v v friendly and half the price of the corporates (£2.25 for a Panini, winner).

A view from Costa without Usain Bolt and David Weir

4. Cafe Rouge. Rouge may be a Whitbread chain but, like La Tasca, if you have lived here for a few years you will have a happy memory or two based here. When I was dating Didsbury Wife we would sneak here pre-work for coffee and a kiss on the red velvet seats. They are great with children and the food is worth a snoop. I walk past it and it stirs lovely pre Didsbury Dad memories. When it opened Rouge seemed an unfeasibly gauche addition to the village.

5. Albert’s Shed. I’m old enough to have had my first drink in The Barleycorn in the 80s and my own Didsbury Dad and Mum lived over the shop when this was a casino in the 60s. The building’s re-incarnation, mid credit crunch as a  Castlefield favourite was a little slice of genius. Good fun on a night out and for Sunday brunch on a bright day.

6. The Alpine Tearoom in Fletcher Moss. On a summer’s day, this is the centre of the Didsbury world. A gateway to Fletcher Moss, a great spot to people-watch and hark back to early times when an ice cream and a walk satisfied a child for the afternoon.

7. Fusion Deli. The coffee is genuinely good but the bonhomie shared by Pete and Tom amid the Olive Tofu, the proximity to Inmans and the chance to watch Blockbusters’ demise first hand make this a great stop.

8. Samsi Junior opposite The Red Lion. I think it’s Withington and its green tea not coffee but another fave yapping point.

9. Folk. A one-off. A bit like big curly hair. Whatever is done to decorate the place and smarten it up it still looks the epitome of 80s Didsbury scruffy boho chic and so it should. You get really good food, really poor service with a smile and a fine bar should your coffee need stiffening.

10. Piccolino’s. Replacing The Nose, even after its post Liz and Lawrence bastardisation was always going to be a tall order. This was a venue prime for the cynics and snobs to slate but against all odds it is a top hangout at any time of day.

11. Mr Marvel’s Cafe. It closed circa 1990 something but was Didsbury Wife’s fave hangout and a little scary in smokiest times.

12. Didsbury Mum’s House. There are some great coffee shops in the village but few, in fact none offer this level of service. I can let myself in and there’s always tea and cake. I am always told that I look fine and I’m a success, highly recommended.

13. The Bench at the end of the tree-lined path opposite the river. There’s no Wi-fi, no coffee, no one can bother you and if the sun is shining and contents of the double buggy are sleeping, it is perfect.

Only inverse snobbery prevents the sublime Caffe Nero and the sofas at Costa getting in. Both have their benefits, charms and free newspapers.

Next week we begin part 1 of a 644 part series on Didsbury’s Barber Shops.

School Plays – A father’s story

Didsbury Son is in the school play. This means a week of tears and tantrums as he won’t let me give him direction or amend his script. Shakespeare – it was written for ad-lib, toilet gag and interpretation. I’ve been to the naughty step, but Didsbury Son’s thespian career throws me a dilemma.

The newest Didsbury Daughter prepares for a career on stage by staying asleep at a photo shoot.

For me, there are few things better than watching Didsbury Son on stage. His final junior school play was a romp. Aided by the fact that they had given up teaching in January and had to fill in from  9 and 3 until July (between ubiquitous theme days – see June blogs), it was lush and  Didsbury Son was brilliant. In Yiddish terms I schlepped nacchus and qvelled. In English, I was proud.

However, much more important than him being brilliant, he was on stage for 90% of the 80 minutes. This soothed my short attention span and meant I didn’t have to spend too long watching other Didsbury sons and daughters.

At a previous primary school the concerts were so bad I used to fantasise that the gushing Headmaster would bring out the music teacher and indict her for crimes against sound.

I am not precious about this. I don’t expect anyone else to be entranced by my little prince and I find it difficult to feign interest most of the time unless they are

A) really bad and I can tell jokes to Didsbury Son afterwards.

B) I’m a blood relative.

C) see A.

The lighting at the play wasn’t really condusive to good photography

So to Shakespeare for the under 15s

“All the world’s a stage but that doesn’t mean you should be on it”

“If music be the food of love this is as nourishing as One Direction playing in  McDonalds.”

“Soft you now, the fair Ophelia. Nymph, get the car started this is awful.”

So finding out that Didsbury Son is on stage 2 hours and 25 minutes in to this bardfest is a source of torture and its all my own failing. They are actually quite good and the costumes are worthy of more attention. However, after a day that began at 4am changing an explosion in a Moses Basket that could have seen it sink the original Moses. After a journeythat included enough time on the motorway to count lamposts, I can’t be alone in not wanting to sit on a school chair with acoustics designed under water waiting way past my new bedtime to see Didsbury Son  finally shine like a beacon whilst the audience is fretting about missing Masterchef.

What did we do in these situations before smartphones?

When school plays get too boring I retreat to a happy place.

Didsbury Dad’s Three Part Guide: 1. West Didsbury

Part 1: The West…

None of the research in this piece is specific, scientific or socially significant. Any misconception, misrepresentation or misanthropy is purely there for alliterative reasons and I blame the 80s.

Mooching M20 with Didsbury Son has always been a favourite pursuit and I have had to start thinking about routes that will take a double buggy with a coffee holder as we prepare to welcome twins into the family tradition of wandering aimlessly; all this wandering – it’s my cultural heritage.

Clyde Road. A three-storeyed gateway linking Barlow Moor Road’s former cutting edge with Lapwing Lane’s BoHo entry to Westworld. Barlow Moor Road used to host The Barleycorn and Mr Marvel’s Cafe. The Barleycorn, a former casino where my own Didsbury Dad and Mum lived as a young couple was the first pub I ever went into. At occasional stages I was almost cool enough to go downstairs. Mr Marvel, a now empty basement opposite Moor Allerton pre-dated Art of Tea and Costafication by several generations. Its lure for older kids and its promise of smokey naughtiness, pinball and … coffee was enticing and a little scary.

But Clyde Road. Now that was West Didsbury; a combination of dance school, studio flats and huge houses seemingly packed with dressing up boxes, tobacco and wannabees. Clyde Road leads to Lapwing Lane and Burton Road – the heart of West Didsbury. Once faded, now sought after and a go-to place for boys with big cars, girls with big heels and developers with an eye for renovation.

Lapwing Lane has always held a fascination for me since childhood. I always thought that Withington Town Hall would make a great nightclub. Lapwing Court’s flat roofs and balconies were chic beyond belief and the venue now known as The Metropolitan was a monolith in the heart of my world.

Piccolino’s was The Nose. The Nose was groundbreaking. When Liz owned it, Henry worked the kitchens and Sonia served it was the daytime Madchester office cum hangout. The Midland, first with Bilko’s and then MVITA brought the world to West Didsbury and a party to every weekend.

Duwe’s brilliant bakery is now Pete’s stylish Steranko and where I cycled with my Didsbury Dad for bagels from Somers is now a wooden furniture treasure trove. The impressive Withington Hospital may have been diminished and hawked for a development with the look of an open prison but Burton Road is a journey through Didsbury’s past through to its future. The Canadian Charcoal Pit has been there from a time when cup cakes being global currency was as improbable as Manchester being a destination city, but Folk fits seamlessly into Westworld and from the mosque to Withington Baths is a cultural journey with room for both of us, coffees and a pram with more gadgets than a James Bond Aston Martin DB7.

Didsbury Dad’s random recommendations in West Didsbury:

Folk: great vibe, great food, service so bad it’s entertaining.

Ghurka Grill: the extension gives more menu sampling opportunity.

Orchard Street: I like a mooch up and down.

Crazy Wendy’s: I like to walk past.

The Shop on the corner opposite Piccolino’s. always something beautiful.

The Metropolitan: I like to go there to watch the beautiful people and count my blessings I am married and Didsbury Son means I have to go home early.

Welcome Giddy Goat, goodbye Summer Holiday

The more things change, the more they come back as Barbers, Charity Shops and Coffee Shops (Shskespeare).

As the Pixie fled Albert Hill Street to re-open with (thankfully) the same staff and 90% of the same stock as Linen, so it is Rumpus we shed a tear for as Louise bids farewell to staring at the front of the Post Office counting the illegally parked 4x4s. Bye bye Rumpus, hello Giddy Goat Toys. Same idea, different people and with twins on the way I have a feeling I’ll be there plenty. I liked Rumpus. With that at one end of the village and the brief but intense Razma Reads at the other we had the independent balance that Costa, Croatia and Caffe Nero’s Red Green Blue coffee colour chart has. brought to Wilmslow Road. Bear with me, by now even I have no idea where my mind has wandered to but there is reason.

This week is one that all parents anticipate and count down to with the enthusiasm of a teenage New Years’ Eve party; back to school day. Didsbury’s 107 Barbers from Chalky White on Fog Lane to Bohemian Rhapsody (made up name*) on Burton Road were full of sulky Didsburylings getting their short smart school haircuts. The cupcake emporiums were then full of mothers looking to appease their shorn offspring and MCS stores on Didsbury’s Eastern border was a picture of parental hell and soon-to-be-pupil unrest.

Anyone who sees buying school uniform as a pleasure is either stupid or role-playing. It is school shoe tiring, tie-teaching, grey sock searching misery that drains hearts and wallets with equal vigour. Didsbury Son is actually pretty easy; but by Tuesday we had still failed to track down gym shorts and our will to live was ebbing away.

I had been to John Lewis, M&S, Asda, Tesco and Decathlon chasing the elusive grail of stain-free suitable shorts. This depressing chainstore crawl had me praying to breakdown. At 4.59, leaving Didsbury Son head down in Pokemonland I stepped in to MCS School Outfitters. The queue stretched around the shop, the sunken cheeked queue ees mouthed hopeless pleas to me and the smell of sweat and fear engulfed me. It was as though Didsbury had been invaded and the refugees were making sure they had the right PE kit before they fled.

I turned around, mentally wrote a note for Didsbury Son’s teacher and counted down the hours to my first fantastically solo coffee since July.

Sometimes parenting means looking without your glasses on.

Ante-natal scans and the football season

At some point in the next few weeks Didsbury Son will become a big brother twice over. I cannot guide him. I am the youngest in my family. He has taken the endless procession and pram talk with an openness that has been a joy to share. After an initial lip-trembling and leg-clasping reaction he is now a full member of team twins and makes plans, asks questions, gulps and cheers with the rest of us. We have practiced changing nappies on the toys and can now pick out the minutest detail on a scan picture.

It’s the pram I’m staring at, not you

Waiting for an ante-natal scan is a great leveler. All, well almost all strata of society comes through here. The really rich may have clinics with carpets and a choice of water but within the NHS it’s a sociological dream.

We had been waiting for a scan for about an hour and a half. Excited planning had descended into small talk , then sniping and eventually looking for an excuse for a row whilst redesigning the NHS.

The conversation around us ranged from the benefits of a Bugaboo over a Mountain Duet, to who’ll do the feed if it’s time for a spliff. This is where organic grocer meets Netto; where the great melting pot that is a modern city shares space, scanning gel and key stages – but looks down magnificently on the differences around them.

I notice I look at everyone in a new way. When out and about I have progressed from eying up women, through looking broodingly at their dogs, to my new hobby – checking out the pram. I know very little about cars but can talk about the wheelbase, handling and flexibility of “travel systems”. Do you know your donkey from your city jogger? I do, doh.

Travel System is the 2012 name for the Rubik’s Cube on wheels that now stands in for a pram. When Didsbury Son was a baby he had a pram and a car seat. He was safe, mobile and easy to wheel about. Nowadays, If your buggy does not have James Bond ejector seats, can swivel the baby like The Exorcist or make Fair Trade espresso whilst you perambulate your little (insert recycled Victorian name) then you will be the pariah of the support group; cast out before you have a chance to re-blow it in the school playground.The non eBay-won travel system costs an obscene amount; similar to a week with Mark Warner, a large popcorn and hot dog at Cineworld or a family trip to a Premier League – without the instant gratification or the tan / sugar-rush hangover

Last night we attended a twin induction tour which was lovely – except the midwife threw terms like catheter, snipped perineum and dilation around as though, as though, as though the men in the room were not squeamish cowards desperate to stay at the head end and receive a cordless and clean baby in a blanket.

The last time I considered the term dilation in detail was in a club toilet on a stag night, trying to work out if we could leave a friend there or should call an ambulance.

It will be downstairs at Costa once the twins arrive

I can now discuss nose-to-breast without cheap gags and I understand that gas and air is not for sharing. I have handheld, wept and beamed as the scans move from shrimp to alien to recognisable baby and, most importantly for any man – I have worked out the birthing playlist for the iPod and even decided to throw in a few tracks that Didsbury Wife likes.

This weekend the hypno-birthing partners class clashes with the first game of the season. When I took Didsbury Son to a cup final in May I joked that it would probably be the last time I would be able to do such a thing. Silly me.

In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose…..

Didsbury; the birds, the barbers, the ship canal

Melton Mowbray has its Pork Pies and Eccles its cakes. Swindon, roundabouts and Hull white telephone boxes. Think of London and Dick Whittington springs to mind. Edinburgh – and it’s Greyfriars’ Bobby yapping at you from the gates of the cemetery, a saucer of Irn Bru having been lapped.

But what about Didsbury?

This birthplace of the RSPB, final home of Manchester Ship Canal’s Daniel Adamson and residence of the current Poet Laureate. This leafy suburb was the birthplace of 70s footballer/cricketer Jim Cumbes; hosts the resting place of two of bonnie Prince Charlie’s men and incorporates Fletcher Moss; man, pub and meadow.

A river runs through it.

What are we synonymous with?

Didsbury Son’s self-created Scooby Sandwich? It features 5 essential hydrogenated e-numbers and several incompatible layers. It is good, but…

Didsbury still loves its birds. Rare birds by the river, well-hung ones in Evans and mesmerising rotisseried chickens at The Didsbury Village Farm Shop.

The ship canal spirit lives on in the Mersey Basin and there are professional, amateur and Tai Chi inspired poets giving our village rhyme and lyrical beauty; but they do not define us.

So beyond supermarkets, young professionals and an M20 postcode what is our USP?

I think we have two.
Not the abysmal cell-like flats that have replaced two of our iconic buildings (Capitol Theatre where The Avengers was shot, Withington Hospital where I had my first endoscopy).
Not the ignoring of private car spaces and general manners by the not so yummy mummies at our primary schools.
Not even Wilkinsons on Barlow Moor Road, the shop that defies progress in the most delicious fashion.

In Didsbury – beyond doctors, lawyers, teachers, media luvvies and music biz veterans we do Barbers and Coffee Shops like no other village, enclave, borough or suburb.

Muswell Hill LOOK and LEARN. Alderley Edge, tell the nanny to take notes.

The spirit of Sid the Barber lives on. From Chalkie White and Blade in the East of Didsbury, down past the barbers on School Lane that now outnumber residential houses 2-1. From John at Gentry Grooming and the achingly naff Edward Scissorhands to West Didsbury’s boho barbers of Burton Road. Say it loud Didsbury… We are hirsute and happy Didsbury Dads, Granddads, sons and nephews. Boys and men who need a regular trim and not necessarily anything for the weekend…
And…

We can distinguish between an arabica bean and a full-roast from any number of differently coloured coffee shops. This is no village for Mellow Birds, wherever the RSPB was founded.

Sent from my iPhone

Commemorating 200 years since the USA declared war on us

11.30am Didsbury Village. With proofing to prove, edits to edit and organidling to organise I escaped to Caffe Nero. The shrill of competitive parenting was overwhelming. Assorted too young or too sniffly for school juniors piped hopefully, but the sound of bragging about offspring and moaning about partners was reaching a crescendo. It clashed hideously with Boden’s summer rainwear collection in such a disorienting manner that then men who stare at goats were taking notes.

I escaped to the relative tranquility and surly Balkan service of Didsbury Deli; a turquoise balance to the United and City of Costa and Nero.

I like it here. Young men talk business and older people discuss the time when Sivoris, Hurst’s Chemists, GT Blagg and Applethwaites dominated the village. It’s too narrow for a buggy, too reverby for shrilled instructions to carry without distortion and they serve Illy.

Today Didsbury Son went on a hospital visit with school dressed patriotically in red, white and blue. This unlikely combination, like Gourmet Burger King and a queue is likely to unsettle people or recreate hallucinations. If your first sight on regaining consciousness was 30 Pre-teens in union jack outfits you may feel you had come round too late to enjoy the pleasure of a coffee in Didsbury Village.

With SATS over and time to fill before the big holiday every schoolday has a theme, visit or rehearsal. I got so confused last week I began scanning the papers for National Days that could be celebrated .

June 1st celebrates St. Candida and is 200 years to the day since US President James Madison declared war on The United Kingdom. My suggestion that Didsbury Son goes dressed as a redcoat and then, taking a atoon of Year 4s, stands guard outside Subway distributing leaflets about Candida fell on dead ears.

Aah well. Back to my coffee and blank piece of paper and onwards to Friday. It’s half-term and Didsbury Son can dress as he likes, watch TV drinking Fanta and spend 15 minutes describing the plot of The Cleveland Show to me as I scan the Internet for new football kits over which I can obsess.

The picture below is nothing to do with the blog.

Gimmee Shelter

The impossible has happened, the balance of power has shifted; the supermarkets and banks are outflanked. Prepare for a turf war there’s a new charity shop in the village.

Shelter, with a neon sign proclaiming their residence have set-up next to Oxfam in the spot vacated by David Pluck. I had a friend who would use the two Plucks as staging posts. Place a bet at one end, stroll the length of the village slowly enjoying a smoke and check how he had done at the other end, with the option of a celebratory Costa or Subway; symmetry.

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Now the new Shelter has surprised me for two reasons. First, there surely can’t be an attic, granny flat or kid’s toy box in South Manchester with anything left for eBay or passing on through the generations. Between 15 charity shops, Christian Aid, Domestic and foreign collections and the effect of the weather there are bare spare rooms and empty dressing up boxes across the village.

Secondly, this stops the natural expansion of uber charity shop, laureate endorsed hypermarket, Oxfam. Would Macy’s open next to Bloomingdales? Pepsi next to Coke? Costa next to Nero, let’s move on.

Whereas Pluck’s had only been somewhere that Didsbury Son was made to wait outside whilst Didsbury Dad and Uncle re-invested his sweet money, Shelter offers the opportunity to search for glitchless games and unscratched CDs.

Oxfam, with it’s impeccable credentials, lovely peanut butter and vastly over-priced books. I always imagined them spreading north until The Crown became the Oxfam Bar and Grill.

Aah well. At least the new Shelter will offer somewhere for their inappropriately dressed, over-zealous street hawkers to retire to when the pace gets too frantic outside Boots and they feel the glare of Barnados and Mind staff burning through their red tabards.

Geese have flown in from as far as Canada to be ready for Friday's planned opening

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Not West Didsbury

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February is the shortest month, and other platitudes.

Apologies for the Didsbury Dad hiatus. It’s been a full-on month. My original plan was keep quiet and grow a beard until another independent fairy cake or organic toy shop opened in Didsbury. The karma of the village has been upset by Tesco Express and Domino’s opening within a week of each other; but Movember took its toll on me. So I thought I would wait until I had a meeting big enough to sit back and tap away. Thank you to organisational development meeting for a year-long event strategy spoken in a dialogue and language with which I am not au fait. Time for Didsbury Dad.

Didsbury Thin Cat Hides from a Didsbury Fat Cat short on biscuits

Tesco Express is lovely. They can’t be that busy because it is the only supermarket I have ever been in where every member of staff welcomes you and nudges you down the aisles with a “please but something, I need this job” look. It’s like taking a dog to the front door on a windy day.
It’s been a fraught month and I have learned a lot BUT my dream of a shed with 5 Live piped in and a lock on the door is still a dream, I still have no idea who anybody is on Star Wars episodes 1-3 and my list of things to give up for lent was so long I decided to give up lists and appropriating other religions’ ideas.
So here is my list of February things I have learned as I sailed past 39 1/2.
1. Success on Valentine’s day depends not on the poem, card, thought, flowers or inappropriate intentions gracefully cloaked. It depends on Didsbury Son and he didn’t let me down. After a little cajoling but no bribery at all he produced a handwritten, self-designed, heart-cut-out-of-the-middle card that melted Didsbury Wife’s heart more than a spring clean and trolley dash around John Lewis could ever do. Thank You Didsbury Son.
2. There is no need for a creme egg to buy privacy if you have an iPod and headphones.
3. The first morning you wake up Didsbury Son for school and do not have to lie that the sun is rising is already is a great day. Yesterday we almost heard birdsong over the top of the Metrolink construction.
4. It’s a myth that cats are not greedy. Didsbury Fat Cat’s winter coat is threatening to make widening the cat flap a spring must. He squeezes through with a Pilsbury Pop and sits like Diego Maradona on a chat show.
5. Red Roses on February 15th may be only 50p each on Tesco Express but are still not a good idea.
6. I was talking to a group of 20/21 year old young filmmakers about ideas. When I was informed that they would need an actor in their early 40s, you know, middle-aged. I was the only one who gasped, then winced. My disappointment was more revealing than a dad dance and sneaking away to play The Smiths made it worse.

7. Having Nero, Costa, Rouge, Subway and several independents within 100 years does not equal cheap coffee. My dream of a price war and getting out of Nero with change from a tenner is slipping away. Although my idea for a Westside Story style dance off up Wilmslow Road between the prams in Nero and Costa’s Buggy posse still has legs and could work for the Didsbury Festival.

8. Boyle’s First Law of parenting points out that when there is live football on terrestrial television it will inevitably coincide with child sickness, parents’ evening or the cat bringing in something rodent and wriggly to share with the family.