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 “fanta”

Commemorating 200 years since the USA declared war on us

11.30am Didsbury Village. With proofing to prove, edits to edit and organidling to organise I escaped to Caffe Nero. The shrill of competitive parenting was overwhelming. Assorted too young or too sniffly for school juniors piped hopefully, but the sound of bragging about offspring and moaning about partners was reaching a crescendo. It clashed hideously with Boden’s summer rainwear collection in such a disorienting manner that then men who stare at goats were taking notes.

I escaped to the relative tranquility and surly Balkan service of Didsbury Deli; a turquoise balance to the United and City of Costa and Nero.

I like it here. Young men talk business and older people discuss the time when Sivoris, Hurst’s Chemists, GT Blagg and Applethwaites dominated the village. It’s too narrow for a buggy, too reverby for shrilled instructions to carry without distortion and they serve Illy.

Today Didsbury Son went on a hospital visit with school dressed patriotically in red, white and blue. This unlikely combination, like Gourmet Burger King and a queue is likely to unsettle people or recreate hallucinations. If your first sight on regaining consciousness was 30 Pre-teens in union jack outfits you may feel you had come round too late to enjoy the pleasure of a coffee in Didsbury Village.

With SATS over and time to fill before the big holiday every schoolday has a theme, visit or rehearsal. I got so confused last week I began scanning the papers for National Days that could be celebrated .

June 1st celebrates St. Candida and is 200 years to the day since US President James Madison declared war on The United Kingdom. My suggestion that Didsbury Son goes dressed as a redcoat and then, taking a atoon of Year 4s, stands guard outside Subway distributing leaflets about Candida fell on dead ears.

Aah well. Back to my coffee and blank piece of paper and onwards to Friday. It’s half-term and Didsbury Son can dress as he likes, watch TV drinking Fanta and spend 15 minutes describing the plot of The Cleveland Show to me as I scan the Internet for new football kits over which I can obsess.

The picture below is nothing to do with the blog.

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The Patriots visit Hospital

11.30am Didsbury Village. With proofing to prove, edits to edit and organidling to organise I escaped to Caffe Nero. The shrill of competitive parenting was overwhelming. Assorted too young or too sniffly for school juniors piped hopefully, but the sound of bragging about offspring and moaning about partners was reaching a crescendo. It clashed hideously with Boden’s summer rainwear collection in such a disorienting manner that then men who stare at goats were taking notes.

I escaped to the relative tranquility and surly Balkan service of Didsbury Deli; a turquoise balance to the United and City of Costa and Nero.

I like it here. Young men talk business and older people discuss the time when Sivoris, Hurst’s Chemists, GT Blagg and Applethwaites dominated the village. It’s too narrow for a buggy, too reverby for shrilled instructions to carry without distortion and they serve Illy.

Today Didsbury Son went on a hospital visit with school dressed patriotically in red, white and blue. This unlikely combination, like Gourmet Burger King and a queue is likely to unsettle people or recreate hallucinations. If your first sight on regaining consciousness was 30 Pre-teens in union jack outfits you may feel you had come round too late to enjoy the pleasure of a coffee in Didsbury Village.

With SATS over and time to fill before the big holiday every schoolday has a theme, visit or rehearsal. I got so confused last week I began scanning the papers for National Days that could be celebrated .

June 1st celebrates St. Candida and is 200 years to the day since US President James Madison declared war on The United Kingdom. My suggestion that Didsbury Son goes dressed as a redcoat and then, taking a atoon of Year 4s, stands guard outside Subway distributing leaflets about Candida fell on dead ears.

Aah well. Back to my coffee and blank piece of paper and onwards to Friday. It’s half-term and Didsbury Son can dress as he likes, watch TV drinking Fanta and spend 15 minutes describing the plot of The Cleveland Show to me as I scan the Internet for new football kits over which I can obsess.

The horn, the hamster, the goldfish and Jack Nicholson

I took Didsbury Son to a big sporting event last weekend.We left for  the capital for big treats all around and high excitement.

I made 2 errors with profound effects. 1. I brought him a horn. 2. I brought him a horn four hours before the event started.

A loud horn and a small boy, bad combination

Didsbury Son re-enacts Robin Hood’s call to arms

By the time the battle commenced the combination of constant horn honking, sugar rushes and overwhelm gave him an expression closer to Jack Nicholson just before he shouts “Here’s Johnny” than anyone I recognised.

As an experiment it was fascinating. As proof to me that I can zone out of any sound after a while it was interesting. As evidence that a honking horn can drive hard men to tears and drunken men to abusiveness it was conclusive.

By Half-Time he was so wired I honestly thought I would have to swap him before re-introducing him to Didsbury Wife later that night. I have tried this tack before with a goldfish and after the unfortunate incident when the kamikaze hamster, more suited to The Great Escape than the burbs leapt free from his cage straight down the throat of Didsbury Fat Cat.

It wouldn’t work. I used to get confused as to which one was Didsbury Son when he first started school. 20 odd 4 year olds launching at you in the same clothes is enough to confuse any dad, but mums know so I had to try something new, more sugar.

I was heartened by the overriding half-time sight of dozens of dads angrily trying to pacify overwrought and over-tired sons. Hapless pre-tens who were apeing the big men they saw around them, with hapless apemen trying to shout them back to calmness. I did what any sensible dad would do; plied him with Fanta and he got back to happily honking until an exasperated supersized Neanderthal begged me to get him to stop.

Six hours, 2 more hotdogs and a sleep in the car later we gratefully turned into M20. The sight of Cineworld heralding a a heroic return home. I half carried and poured Didsbury Son to bed, smiled at thoughts of our adventure, sipped my tea with Didsbury Wife and threw away the horn. He hasn’t noticed yet.

Lord of the Manor

Didsbury Son surveys the landscape of another glamorous day out

PART 2 – HOW DO YOU KNOW YOUR HOLIDAY IS WORKING?

YOU KNOW THE HOLIDAY IS WORKING WHEN…

Children , especially your own don’t grate and fanta, chocolate and DS for breakfast seem reasonable.

Those machines outside shops with plastic balls in are enticing.

Ice cream tastes fantastic.

That vertical line between your eyes that gets deeper daily at home seems to shrink

You don’t get acid reflux or sciatica

An exercise class in 30 degree heat being embarrassed in a foreign language is fun.

You laugh whilst washing up

You can read the Daily Mail without feeling uneasy

You agree to social functions willingly; by the time it’s October  and you are squeezed into something uncomfy with someone dull – the tan, the intention and the bonhomie will have gone.

You realise that you do care about the things you worried that you had stopped caring about.

The sunrise is the most beautiful time of day, every day
You realise that you genuinely love your car and then go back to sleep.
Didsbury wife suggests a 500 mile drive to Paris to show Didsbury son the Eiffel Tower and you agree immediately.

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