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 “Hollyoaks”

Early Morning and the sun is not even threatening the flags

It is 5.25am and there is rare quiet and calm in the house. It may seem unfeasible to be up by choice now, but time is precious and in a busy house with children, on an almost sunny spring day, this is magic.

The sun is coming up over the Metrolink station and the waft of Lynx seeps under Didsbury Son’s door and throughout the house. In 5000 years the Lynx particles (which have an ability to hang around pungently in a manner that makes kippers envious) will carbon date Didsbury Son to the month. This is the post-Primary pre-Hollyoaks phase. A confusing time when joyous childhood easiness makes a last stand before the inevitable rise of the surlies.

This is the last night of the fair. By the big wheel generator, a boy is stabbed and his money is grabbed and the air hangs heavy like a. Wait, sorry that’s The Smiths, I had a flashback through the glinting sun back to the 80s.

The Mighty-Headed twin boy, whose spherical bounce is a source of both pride and wonder to me is flat out. His hands look poised to conduct and his lips purse, ready for the 6.30 kisses, changing, tickles and bottle. The pearly topped presence in the next cot down is purring and there is a hint of a smile as she sighs happily towards the edge of sleep. All 3 blessings counted I make myself a mug of tea just how I like it, safe in the knowledge this is the only drink in the next 24 hours I will be able to finish whilst its still hot.

The sound of the suburbs waking up fills my senses. The fretful mothers who feigned religious observance to get the “right” primary school for free dream of getting into illegal without being asked to move their 4x4s. The Karma Sutran staff sleep and hope their dreams will have a happy ending and in Cibo they wonder if the Venetian influence in their restaurant will be enough to see off the Didsbury Loungerians or No. 4’s small but perfectly formed army.

The village wakes up slowly. Deliveries, cleaning, early workers then schoolchildren. Bottles are banked near The Fletcher Moss and Didsbury’s 3000 hair snippers ponder where everyone will be going on holidays.

As the time slips by I have only one dilemma. Do I go and wake the twins to keep them in their routine? Or do I make myself toast and marmalade, proper coffee and sit in the garden to bask in the rays, safe in the absolute certainty that the moment I have laid out a slice of heaven on a plate the first waah will tumble down the stairs and my next view of breakfast will be of coffee with a skin so thick it could wrap around a Rhino.


A head.

5am and the Moses Baskets are rocking

It was 5am and I was outnumbered. Kim Jong-Il and Catherine the Great were lying there flexing their vocal cords and warming up their lungs at me. I could feel a “laughter line” beginning to burrow in from my temples and a black hair was turning grey as I rocked, cooed and shushed.
This shouldn’t be happening. This is wrong. It’s too early. They’re an hour ahead of schedule. They should be milk drunk dreamy… And then it hit me. As the noise built, the tension climbed and any chance of a wee went out of the window, they couldn’t tell the time.

I realised that for the foreseeable future my early weekend mornings bore semblance to the nightshift in the Big Brother House. I sit watching incontinent celebrities sleep. My Didsbury Juniors are unaware of the needs of those around them, they are up early but cry for attention, drink lots and can’t eat solids – at 5 weeks old they already know what it is to be in Hollyoaks.

There is something bizarrely magical about this. I follow a day sharing creative joy with the next generation of wannabee media storytellers to perch next to two Moses baskets full of beautiful despots. Whilst half of my mind craves rest, the other half absorbs and enjoys every gurgle, shnurgle, grunt and trump.

Didsbury Son is fast asleep next door. He has not yet lost that deep sleep childhood capability to
sleep through earthquakes. Didsbury Wife is out cold after a 22 hour nurture and I am here.

There is a beautiful horizontal sliver of moon smiling from a clear November sky. I can hear the odd late night taxi bringing home another former life and I sit here – rocking, mushy headed, dry mouthed and out of focus surrounded by senseless babbling. I haven’t spent £100, had to queue for a £10 drink and … Could really do a big night out

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