This could well be the nearest the British post-hippy, post-modern, post postal service digital native generation get to a summer of love.
After a climax to the football season that had more false endings than the film version of One Day, a brief May heat wave, a Jubilee that saw Buckingham Palace turn into the MEN Arena, a damp but delightful Didsbury Festival and an Olympic Games that squashed the chippiest of cynics under a medal load of good vibes and six packs what more could we ask for?
Another Hairdressers on Wilmslow Road next to a Holland & Barratt that threatens Healthy Spirit and could lead to Tofu Wars? You would be more likely to see every other pub and service station in the country open a concession for the ubiquitous Costa with tasteless coffee in a cheap red cup or see the city’s youth wearing more sky blue than red.
These are heady days filled with passion, potential and pasty faced Olympic TV addicts. Heck Danny Boyle won the Olympics and Andy Murray smiled.
But in the world of Didsbury Son there have been bigger fish to fry. Having cast off the shackles of primary school and scored a pair of Dr Dre Beats for his birthday, the Didsbury Son who squeaked blondily is less and less on show. The mornings of being woken at 5am by hopeful eyes and squeezes seem a distant joy. Didsbury Son is now last up and lopes down with a Kevin the teenager lurk not far behind him.
With twins on the way and a nursery to prepare it has made for interesting times.
The new skills Didsbury Son is developing are helpful and practical. Although he has not yet found his voice as an ex little boy, what we can hear sounds promising and… To my quiet delight; when I can prise him out from under his headphones and away from YouTube to mooch the not so mean streets on which we live- it turns out he is the same little boy, it’s just his voice is heading south on a monthly basis.