Didsburydad's Blog

From the not so mean streets of M20, blog about being a dad, Didsbury and dealing with parental confusion

Archive for the month “June, 2016”

If I was Tim Peake

Me and Tim Peake, brothers with a different view of the world.Tim Peake looks on wrily as rain lashes this year’s Didsbury Festival (Picture, ITV.com)



You can’t help but like and admire Tim Peake. He even had Heston Blumenthal in tears of joy at one point on his journey. His skill and general bonhomie are an antidote to the misogynists, homophobes, xenophobes and general sewer-dwellers who have taken the headlines recently. 

If only I had taken O’Level Physics and was not a mix-handed claustrophobic with a penchant for crisps we could have been work buddies. We could have counted down together. In space we could have run one half marathon each, held gloves on the moonwalk and hit the Duty Free at Khazakstan together before heading home to watch The Euros. However, if I was Tim Peake I think the journey back may have been different. Once the capsule re-entered the atmosphere and came within reach, the text message would flash up, “We’re out of milk, green and red, stop at Co-Op and don’t wake the children when you come in.” I hope he remembered his front door key. 

Where’s Didsbury Dad?

After de-brief, health checks, re-orientation, customs, press interviews etc. would come the tearful family reunion. Tim would be told that childcare was now his responsibility for the next six months as Moon Wife was tired and needed a proper kip AND… Enough of the moon rock, get to Jo Malone at the airport duty free and put your hand in your pocket.


If Tim Peake was from Didsbury he might come back to wonder why the plague of men under 30 with beards had spread here, whether Casa Italia was worth a visit and be impressed that Co-Op has a new front display when he stops to get milk.Happy Fathers’ Day, whether giver, receiver, both or neither. 

Not aliens met on a space trip.

Berocca, pecking orders and life in the slow lane

It’s been a media, Manchester and family logistics whirlwind recently. The beauty of a smartphone calendar is that you can be panicked into action with just long enough to get somewhere (if the traffic agrees with Apple) . The bad thing is looking at your diary for the day and seeing 28 arrangements,10 of which concern the time-sensitive movement of toddlers. There is absolutely no reason for this picture
In notes is all the vital information – remember changing bag. We are still subject to guesswork as to whether it will be a rainforest or Sahara day. Scope emergency Kinder Egg buying opportunities in the area, don’t forget Berocca. 
Berocca – like you but on a day somewhere circa 1995 when you could sit on your haunches and then get up without help. 

Nor this one 

Yesterday’s notes included finding the right bottle of Mountain Dew for Didsbury Son’s weekend camp out, making sure I had the right lights for filming in a Morgue and remembering that you can’t get the tram at St Peters Square (I didn’t, I was then late for everything). 
In the morning Didsbury Wife had been waxing lyrical about our ability to cope without the Volkswagen YouWouldNeverDriveThisIfYouDidntHaveKids since its inner city diet saw it wheel less and written off. After a day of tram, train, bus and taxi I dreamed of the ease of being a two-car family and gasped at the price of cabs. I don’t know if Uber have skewed the market but last time I paid that much to spend half an hour with a stranger so certain of their own thoughts they had Dr. before and capital letters after their name.
Oh it is the fate of the dad to know the price of everything and, that should be a full stop.
In a media life this week I got to play with cameras and body bags, sit in an edit suite and make decisions. At home I reverted to my position in the pecking order just below the cats. My main choice here being Paw Patrol or Blaze, Petit Filous or Yoghurt.

Rites of Passage

We are at the pre-school where my little blondinis will be fed in as caterpillars, to become butterflies, snappers, shrimps et al. All things being equal and brochure promises met, they come out at 11 ready to negotiate world peace as creative, inventive, respectful, academic, sporty, musical, multi-lingual individuals. All schools promise the same. They will take your blank canvas and your partnership will create a masterpiece. 
Today – thinking of this day years in the future, as long as every now and then they seem as pleased to see me as I am to see them I will be happy.
It is their taster day. I have only just got used to them having hair, teeth and language. This is a step too far. It was a toss up all morning as to who would cry most. I had to save mine until I got back in the car. There, as the rain smashed biblically on the windscreen I remembered with wet eyes Didsbury Son pre schooling. 
Then, the hugs and kisses were delivered with joy and urgency. The adulation unfettered and declarations of love came without the expectation of money or lifts.
I know it is as it should be. If they don’t rely on you wholly at 3 it’s not right. If they do at 15 it’s equally not right. It does not make it any easier. Didsbury Son is a typical and lovely teenage boy. This means parenting is strategic.
One difficulty with having teenager and toddlers simultaneously is that as you feel the sticky hands of a 3 year old grab you with adoration and urgency – the reality and criticism of what happens over the next decade is there, next to you, grunting and disapproving from underneath its headphones.
This means one thing only. I make the most of every squeeze, hug and use of me as a Fisher Price toy; they don’t last long. 

Bonnie Prince Charlie & The Didsbury Festival 

Funny day. That is the first Didsbury Festival I’ve had to swerve since 1745 when Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jaccobite March south took in Barlowmoor Fields and stopped the festival. Two remain buried under Oak Trees near Simonsbridge, the stories say. They liked Didsburye so much they stayed to set up their own Jacobean Fishmonger, Cheesemaker and Butchers, but they couldn’t break the stranglehold of Ye Originale Cheese Hamlette, Evans and Axons.  * If you are not from Didsbury then honestly, that’s a good gag. That year there was controversy when the local town cryer Didsburye Magazine proclaimed ” Hale, Altrincham and Bowden” to be part of a Didsburye Territory they would control through shiny horses and people with teeth and without scurvy. 

18th Century Didsbury Delicacy

Two Hundred and Sixty One Years later this was the year of the Aqua Plane. The Fire Brigade were there collecting water for a change. There was an impromptu Frog display after the Wet Dog Show and the fairground became Didsbury’s Own Water Park.On a Day when Manchester’s two biggest events, Parklife and Didsbury Festival collided like The Rumble in the Jungle, it chucked it down. As though the weather has gone all Manc and thought “F it”.

plans to turn the Mersey flood plains into poppy fields have been shelved

Saturday night the carnival left town. The rides parked at the side of Wilmslow Road like Pimped up Tourans sided whilst hassled parents re-adjusted the car seats and wiped down the inhabitants and next year it will return – dryer, happier and thankfully exactly the same as it has been since the Eighteenth Century. 
An Oak Tree that does not have the remains of one of Prince Charlie’s Men.

NEXT WEEK: How Evans saved a Whale, Axons fought the Bratwurst War and The Cheese Hamlet may really be a village

Postcard from Outer Didsbury – 2

I’m back on a flight. It’s 11 o’clock at night which makes it June back in Manchester and this flight goes on longer than my attention span tenfold. IMG_3038A step up from Delivering Yellow Pages and more satisfying

I ran out of Fox’s Glacier Fruits days ago. 

We are 1 1/2 from home and after changes, short flights and customs probably about 6 hours from a reunion. At this moment the thought has me welling up as though it were the final moments of the Champions League Final; it’s a blessing and a curse. I had to pause at customs to prevent the reunion looking like the backstage shots on America’s Gpt Talent

I would never make a politician, poker player or spy. My inner thoughts paint themselves across the eyes, mouth and non-verbal communication that I share with the world.

During a particularly fraught media meeting with a powerful (mmm I do like alliteration, puerile, petty, punctilious) mogul in charge of large budgets I kept getting nudges from a soon to be former executive. It wasn’t Bridge and this was not the cue we’d agreed. The mogul, whose charm range was Katie Hopkins to Angry Toddler suddenly had a fit of clarity.

“You look like you’re want to punch me.” He said “That’s very astute” was not the right reply and we left, presentation unopened. 

I have learned. Being a dad has taught me to feign interest in a range of activities and sports and to rein in emotions and occasionally hide tiredness. Being a Didsbury Dad I have learned to show interest in all manner of shared cultural experiences and in a range of Japanese animations that make Rhubarb & Custard look slick.

Right now, after 7d ays away on the other side of the world with only Face Time for brief snatches I would watch anything to spend 10 minutes with Didsbury Son and for a sniff of the toddlers. Absence has made my heart fonder in a way I could not imagine. I never planned or expected this. But long after everyone else realised, it seems that not only have Didsbury Son, The Mighty Headed Boy and the Pearly Princess changed my life, they have changed me. 

banner 2I saw this and felt almost 5’9″

The welcome I got at the airport made me realise that after “Daddy” shouted at full blast across Terminal 3 arrivals, the best phrase I had heard all week was,

“Ladies and Gentlemen – we have now arrived in Manchester”. – Bliss.

Hello Didsbury, I’m Home – Postcard from the edge of town

Contrary to rumours I have heard I have not moved to Chorlton (as if), grown a beard or started working for Didsbury Magazine** and now spend my life checking out Altrincham and Hale. I am excited that it’s Didsbury Festival day and I have been working away, beavering at home and generally been to busy to even watch football.

Doig something media-ish and almost high falutin’ I have been to the Far East. These are the excerpts from Didsbury Dad’s Diary.

Postcard from Outer Didsbury 1:

38000 feet and several hundred miles above Didsbury.

I have a 13 hour flight to where I am tasked with delivering something media to media people in a media building so far from Fusion Deli that my breakfast coffee is your late night snack. 

I’m halfway through The Martian. This is the first thing I have watched for months that isn’t Paw Patrol, Blaze or Gnomeo & Juliet. The swearing may be bleeped out but just to see anything with jeopardy feels like a rare treat. I am on the way to somewhere allegedly, that sees the phrase “Paw Patrol, on a roll” with different connotations.

paw patrol I see more of these guays than any of my friends and family.

Sitting here with a Gin & Tonic in a skiff, an empty pretzel bag and Matt Damon on Mars makes me realise how out of practice I am after 3 1/2 years of nurturing blobs to toddlers and Didsbury Son from squeaky solo to hear honcho of the Krispy 3. Twice now I have wondered if The Martian is a true story. I think I need to go abroad more.  

IMG_2918 When this seems luxurious and watching a film on a 6 inch screen framed by the back of someone’s head a treat – you need to get out more.

So… Not much blogging recently. Didsbury Village is storming forward with the kind of independent vigour usually reserved for Burton Road.

Casa Italia is now worthy of the term bustling. Somewhere between the beardy hipsters and the independent artisans, the Makers Market and the cycle shop on the cobbles, Saints & Scholars still thrives on a 90s menu and service throwback.

As if the Didsbury Village Farm Shop had never existed comes Three Little Pigs. A butcher so achingly trendy it may just work. Axons have seen off pretenders before. But this is no Victoria Highfield mistaking Didsbury’s residents for the wastelands of Bramhall. This is not a Wedding Dress shop. This is meat so trendy it gets the tram to the Northern Quarter for a night of Benelux Lager. 

The space formerly known as Royal Bank of Scotland has a sexy looking symbol, Bosu Body Bar is spreading low-carb love and even the old Global News space sees movement. 

gonadWhatever this is meant to be, to readers of Viz this is Buster Gonad’s testicle

With house prices currently increasing at a rate that defies logic but means new adjectives need inventing, these are vibrant times in the land of the Fletcher Moss. 

An hour later.

I cried at the end. I don’t know whether it was the Chicken Penang or the cramp creeping up my thigh but I cried with joy for Matt the Martian and realised with joy that as a 40 something with dodgy knees and claustrophobia – I think it’s a good journey if I don’t have to shut the windows.

IMG_2924

The view from the hotel inspires with the majesty of the East.

** In an early version of this blog I accidentally referred to Didsbury Magazine as Didsbury Life. Apologies to Didsbury Life, promoting M20 in all the best ways.

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