No More Mr Rock n Roll
A week is a long time in the life of a butterfly; but the last week away from Didsbury and the milky-stained bosom of my expanded family has seemed like an age.
On the face of it all I should have been in Didsbury Dad heaven. A week away from all night soother chasing, school holidays and sciatica in a gilded city with a hotel and expenses. (I have been away on a creative media promotional multi-platform content driven job. Or whatever it is I do for a living.) It went well and bonds, collaborations and possibly a few grudges were formed. But as the end of the last day drew near I could feel the impatience to be home becoming unbearable.
I was the mirrored reverse of Didsbury Son’s back-to-school blues. I could feel it in the back of my knees; that aching push that seems to make you want to run or buckle – 21st Century fight or flight. That desire to run home tempered by contractual obligations.
Seven days without Burton Road, counting new barber shops and chewing the fat at Fusion Deli is a long tack but then it hit me. I am a changed person. The opportunity to stay out late, eat out of cardboard and talk rubbish to strangers has diminished to an atom sized nothing.
I missed Didsbury Son’s endless re-telling of American cartoons and playground mis-information; the cusped enthusiasm / indifference of my pre-teen babe. I missed the dream-interrupting nudges from Didsbury Wife indicating my turn to attempt night-time serenity in the nursery. The morning Skype calls with four smiley faces reminded me who I could be having breakfast with in a last question wrong on a quiz show type of cruelty.
Back home this morning after my stint of changing, bottle-feed and play with the largest 6 month old head and his smiley sister I realised what I missed most; breakfast. This all-you-can-wear porridge and chopped banana fiesta is better than any custard pie fight I have witnessed. It’s combination of surreal, physical and whimsical comedy is the perfect start to any day.
I am back off for another short stint soon; this time in a bigger city with better room service. Let’s see if this trip has anything to match the Tiswas-esque breakfast experience that hands-down beats a king size, room-service and a peaceful night.
Tiswas “The Bucket of Water Song” a blueprint for family living