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 “GCSE”

Back in the bosom of Didsbury

The Final Week.

It is done. This endless summer break is finally finished. We can pour our progeny into shoes they will hate after months of flip flops and trainers. Parents everywhere are counting the grey hairs, plastic tat and branded/chocolate bribes that litter these last sunny days before the descent into autumn.Our new French Bulldog Max relaxing in Didsbury Park

If I ever see Boss Baby, Barbie or Hotel Transylvania again I will cry.

When my pearly headed princess scrolls through Netflix (or as we call it, Auntie Netta the babysitter) I realise I know all the words to each episode of Boss Baby. I can could even smile empathetically at Templeton’s anxieties. I am beaten.My Bosu Body Bar themed date night didn’t work out.

Moving back to Didsbury with a post GCSE Didsbury Boy and 5 year old twins fuelled by sunlight and sugar has been only slightly less tiresome than trying to keep up with the retail changes to M20. A carpet shop, two craft cafes, a clothes shop, FFS and only 16 new restaurants and hairdressers.These will soon enunciate only the flattest of vowels.

Didsbury Boy is now at an age and stage where he does not want to feature in these stories. What I have learned from 4 years of parenting a teen is sobering. It focuses on self-perception. The rise of digital communication means that current teens are more different to us, than us to our grandparents. The other lesson learned is that however cool you think you are, however vivid your memory, a decade and a half of being a Didsbury Dad drains all direct memory of teen intention; good.

My children have returned to this sceptred village with non Mancunian accents. A month back has already started to thankfully flatten their vowels. But there are still consonants at the beginning of many words that need to be lost.The View from the new playground in Didsbury Park is stunning.

Didsbury Village is much changed, but is still the same. Here are the top 5 things that have caught my eye so far.

1 Caffè Nero has complimentary copies of The Daily M*il. Nobody has brought this paper in Didsbury since 1976 unless they were being ironic. What is going on?

2 I miss the students. The shutting of the Poly (or MuMu) as it’s now known, has robbed the village of some of its liveliness. The cost of the housing replacing it means it’s new residents won’t be able to afford a meal out until 2022 at the earliest.

3 It’s the rise of the small. The Mudflap Felicini has finally and sadly lots its battle and shut down, following Cantina and probably just ahead of Tinto (I hope not). But a reinvented Bosu, The corner kitchen that was RBS and B.lend et al look busy and happy.

4 Saints & Scholars has had a rebrand. Thankfully it looks the same and is still there. It has a similar influence in Didsbury to the ravens in the tower. S&S and Kansas Fried Chicken buck every trend, have seen off every concept and have become iconic. The pictures of the “food” at Kansas are 20th Century. It was there when vinyl didn’t need a revival.

5 The Mosaic gifted to Didsbury by Made from Manchester and Cal is a present of which we can be proud. It is well designed, sassy and a fitting and permanent reminder of a lovely boy. I first saw it late on my first night back and that… made me happy to be home in M20.

Next time – How Love Island and Brexit brought down The Happy Garden.

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The Night Formerly Known As Parents’ Evening 

30 years ago, September 1986 a revolution started in classrooms, led by 14/15 year olds. This was no Punk ethic, New Romantics had cried their eyeliner away and chances were if you had a beard you were a teacher – not a graphic designer. GCSE Electronics Multiple Choice Question.

In September 1986, inspired by General Noriega and the stormin’ Norman Shwarzkopf, the then Home Secretary was Keith Joseph. He was a man whose caricature was less scary than reality. He killed off O’Levels and unleashed GCSEs ready for 1988 (a very bad year for football). 

30 years on I inherited the garbled, evolved, underwhelming fallout; year 10 Parents’ Evening.* (the school year formerly known as 4th Year).

Didsbury Son is now in the full throes of teendom. He’s still my lovely blondini, only the blonde is now expensively applied and the adoration is squeezed in between bouts of predictable disdain, disinterest and mutual exasperation.
Parents Evenings used to be straightforward. They went out. You panicked and prepared your excuses whilst tidying your room in the hope of clemency. They came back. They unfolded a depressing tale of being sussed staring out of the window, drawing, mooching, skiving and generally being as disappointing as most teenage boys are at school. 

You could then go into school full of venom for all, which fed beautifully into teen angst. ** (apart from your one ally in either art, cookery or RE who had said what a lovely and misunderstood boy you were and you were always attentive in lessons. That is to say the one teacher you fancied and fixated upon).
This was easy. Careers advice was nil, students had no fees and could sign on and signing on itself was a career choice. 
Now it’s all wrong. The children come to talk with you. The night starts with a scare video based on the teenage brain, internet trolls and league tables. There is tea, coffee and biscuits and the tone is bizarre convention. 
Every conversation begins with handshakes and “So… Didsbury Son/Freya/Archie, how do you think it’s going?” This savage form of open questioning throws the over-sugared teens into a panic. They know the answer, we know the answer and the teacher hoping I won’t speak to them knows the answer. What follows is an excruciating dance. The teachers either gush inappropriately or hide their frustration behind anodyne comments. The teens promise to do whatever is needed; and their homework. It is an honest, heartfelt pledge that evaporates into the ether and is as likely to be done as the NHS is to get £350m a day from the government. 
We troop home. Didsbury Son is relieved. With the adrenaline dripping away he reverts to teen-type and instagrams his friends as their versions of the night revert to folklore.
I get home for the last 2 minutes of Europa League football and fall into a deep sleep, safe in the knowledge that the status quo is restored and positive that the biscuits weren’t as good as last year. 

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