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 tag “cats”

Didsbury Son’s Summer of Sport

Euro fever is in the air as Didsbury Son and I cherish this magnificent summer of sport. Finally, after much work and tinkering with tactics I have managed to get the couch and its cushion configuration to co-ordinate with the TV and its remote controller in the kind of symbiotic congruence that the England midfield failed to meet.

The Olympic Flagbearer prepares for the Living Room Olympics by eyeing up a snack

I can now slouch in a spine-melting, double-chin enhancing, muscle untoning place for several hours and reach drink, snack and remote without moving. This tactical and creative acumen has allowed me to bond with Didsbury Son, whose take on TV sport races between boredom and indifference. Last night we recreated the greatest moments of The Euros by staring at each other for 2 hours before I went to kiss him goodnight on his forehead. I missed and hit an ear. Didsbury Son then superbly kissed me goodnight right between the eyebrows and won 1-0 on penalties.

For Wimbledon, we queue up for the bathroom for several hours squeezing out painful 60s singalonga tunes before calling “To me, To you” until one of us pauses or falls asleep. The Chuckle Brothers Wimbledon shield is now nearly as hotly contested as the post shower bathroom slide.

One of my favourite sporting contests is the breakfast pundits challenge. We take turns quoting the wisdom of Shearer and “Lawro” Lawrenson to inspire us; the morning silence is golden.

We have recreated the Rugby Union tours of the Southern Hemisphere by getting up early, putting pillows under our shorts and gurning, whilst pushing tissue up a nostril. We then go to see Australian friends who chase us for an hour before making us look stupid.

BUT- the big one is coming.It is almost time for Indoor Olympics . The games have finally come to Didsbury for the first time since 1948 when there were no charity shops or coffee stops in the village. New era, new challenge.

This sporting feast – adapted from the great Classroom Olympics of the 70s and 80s and not walking on the cracks in the pavement, is the ultimate sporting challenge. It’s goal of moving through the house without touching the floor pits son against dad and dad against gravity and lack of flexibility. Didsbury Son qualified early and passed the E numbers test by waiting to go to Zayn News for sweets. With Didsbury Fat Cat confirmed as flag bearer and Didsbury Wife shaking her head sadly it’s all to play for as we go for gold (a Caramac).

Drug testing is strenuous


Palatine Road, Take Me Home

I have just spent a week away on an allegedly glamorous job in a guilded city. Now I normally take a South Manchester Reporter and a pic of Didsbury Library with me if I’m on an overnight, so 5 days with no Fusion Deli, no Greenhalgh v Greggs Strategy and 5 days without wondering what some of the shops on School Lane sell would be tricky.

5 days with no Didsbury Son. The novelty of no questions, access to a television and use of my own computer wore off by the end of Day 1.

By the end of Day 2 I could almost wish to trail behind him as he moonwalked out of clothes, toys and gadgets to pick them up disapprovingly.

By 3, the joy of homework and tooth brushing seemed like a gift and by the end of Day 4 I was willing to watch Star Wars.

What I also noticed was a little heartwarming reciprocity. Our first afternoon call was 8 bored seconds drowned out by CBBC. By day 4 it was as though we had met in a bar in Alaska having found out we went to our first teenage party together at Didsbury Scout Hut.

I made a triumphant return. Didsbury Wife and Son were out, thin moody lady cat harrumphed a bit and sloped in as I unloaded the car and began remarking my territory.

I thought back to the space I had just enjoyed in one of Britain’s top fast foodesque hotel chains. The UHT treated portion millac(R) that always makes the tea taste of plastic more than milk. The power shower with the average flow of an octogenarian and the walls so paper thin I was able to clap along with the amorous couple next door.

The freedom of eating a takeaway in bed squinting at a TV that only spiderman could have placed was only trumped by the 3am fire alarm, accompanied by tatooed cheers from the bar floors below. Wilmslow Road, you never looked so good.

The homecoming didn’t really start until Didsbury Fat Cat, sensing a treat or two began to swish around me like a Stoke centre-half at a corner.

This was just a warm-up. Didsbury Son leapt at me like he was four again. I swirled him around and remembered all the good things about being Didsbury Dad.

Christmas Eve Part 2

Christmas Eve –
From 4pm the streets are lined with parents holding children, cards and Christingle oranges.
From 5pm the last of the male shoppers troop beaten out of the off-licence or clutch their soon to be ignored last minute gifts.
At 6pm it is quiet, but
By 7pm the younger teenagers in short sleeves and bravado are tripping from mates’ houses to unsuccessful attempts at getting served. This sharpens the barstaff for the influx of the lads and the laydeez from 8pm onwards.
9pm and the chains by the clocktower are full of testosterone, Top Man and Gio Goi. There is flirting and smoking going on in equal measure outside each one. The smaller pubs are full of the drinkers, divorcees, the unenthusiastic and those resolving to blank out whatever the true meaning is to them.
11pm Midnight Mass at St. James’ and hope is resurrected to a motley crew of the faithful, the once a year and the searching…
I am at hope frantically trying to tidy the house and slip gifts over which I have agonised under a tipsy and tiny tree that has failed to meet any expectations.

Like all good Didsbury Dads I have several concerns. Is medium the new 12? Is a 10 going to be perceived as inviting or inhibiting? Why doesn’t John Lewis sell Jo Malone? If I got a job at John Lewis next year then the money I save on staff discount throughout the year would be better than wages. When will John Lewis take over the Pizza Hut vacated space in the village to stop that terminal trip up the A34 that always means you miss the 4pm Sunday kick off?

Didsbury son is easy. If it has a half eaten fruit on the side, is a DVD or something to cuddle it wins.

The cats eye me suspiciously as I bite through two carrots, the mince pie and shlurp the milk they had planned for the second I left the room. Didsbury fatcat brings in one last baby rat dislodged from the Metro building work as an offering (or a swap for the turkey I danced around the room with earlier). Skinny cat eyes me warily and gets back to her 18 hours a day winter sleeping regime. When FC and Rudolf come down they may be disappointed that the food has gone and the cats aren’t really bothered.

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