The Didsburyest – #Westfest15, Bradley Folds and David Beckham.
The two/teen summer holiday is sadly almost at an end. It has been wonderful and uplifting, occasionally restful, very hot, over-budget, funny and much-needed.
The hire car – a Mercedes in name only, whose scratches gave it character and acceleration reminded one of an Austin Maestro
I have read a book, which already puts it ahead of last year with 20 month old twins and next year my goal is a night’s sleep in only one bed at least once (I can dream).
There have been cine memory moments of utter bliss in the baby and big pool as the twins have taken their first goes at swimming. These and moments when Didsbury Son has been Captain of the mini Manc Armada are those snapshot moments that make the overdraft, sciatica and Mr. Tumble worthwhile.
These moments are more noticeable on holiday but are the backbone of any relationship – the moments that cement relationships, lift you in low moments and can be an inspiration. I have in my bank a look and leaping hug from a blonde and squeaky Didsbury Son, a message on a Big Wheel from Didsbury Wife and my team lining up for a Cup Final I had waited twenty years to see – they are irrelevant to most people but are the seeds that have grown my passion and each of us has our own.
I began writing Didsbury Dad on a holiday five years ago when I looked around the other dads and realised that we mainly did what we were told, relied on our other halves for guidance and had to feign interest and understanding in many many things.
I am very lucky that in these five years I have now got two more Didsburylings to stress about, have been to several cup finals and learned things I never even imagined. Last time I was really clear I had made the right decision about a little one in my care she was a dog and I was solo. I spend parents’ evenings and most family discussions guessing what I should think and say and have a feeling most other dads do too.
Fathers Day I was woken by the sound of muffled voices, shuffling feet and a click as the door closed. Then, silence. I tried to come around to the day. My throat was dry and the detritus of a night that had extended way too far into the morning surrounded me. Beakers, a pull-up, a chewed through dummy and the crumbs of a rusk. Man I felt rough.
Then I noticed something else. It was still quiet. The smell of freshly brewed coffee snaked its way upstairs alongside the unmissable note that belonged to three words that are so personal in their interpretation; Full English Breakfast.
The breakfast of champions
I pinched myself to check I was awake. The house was quiet and on the table were a coffee pot and mug, cutlery and two notes. I poured a coffee, luxuriating in a first drink of the day that came hot and without the aroma of potty training.
The note read “Happy Fathers Day. Didsbury Son is out all day and I’ve taken The Mighty Headed Boy and Pearly Princess to a three hour crèche sesh. Your breakfast is in the oven. Read note 2 afterwards. Didsbury Wife x”
If music be the food of love then good food is music to my love and after a fabulous Full English I risked note 2. This guided me to the living room, some cards and a three-hour video of 80s football.
I padded to the couch. I flicked on the TV and drifted off to the sound of The Smiths and a procession of manly mullets and Ellesse trainers.
The pressure in my chest increased, there seemed to be something on top of me. I felt the density of the air change and then came the noise. I was still in bed. The Mighty Headed boy was sitting on me. I opened my eyes, pinched myself and realised that now I was actually awake and my mind had a played a cruel trick as three more words snapped across the room, “Daddy. Wee. Now.”
It’s over – Didsbury Son’s first “romance” has gone the way of Taylor & Burton, Price & Andre and Ampika ‘s marriage on social experiment Real Housewives of Cheshire. It wasn’t so much written in the stars as typed on tablet and smartphone. This was a very much 21st Century affair. There was no disco, no notes, few phone calls and less meetings. This Year 9 month was less Romeo & Juliet and more pen pals on an exchange visit. They did meet up a few times, mainly with friends whose slightly jealous advice seems profound as a new teen, predictable as a 39+++. Fittingly, the farewell Didsbury Son had hoped she would make before him came by Facebook Messenger, the immortal “Let’s just be friends” tapped in an almost grammatically correct flourish of platitudes and pointlessness. Didsbury Son, shrugged, attempted a brief stint of victimness before admitting relief and munching his sausage and chips, whilst watching Maleficient with the air of a man who has heard all charges have been dropped.
there are plenty Moor Hens in the field. An under-used cliche.