Yesterday I tipped over the edge. The edge of being 39 years, 364 days where I have teetered for many years. This was no seeping age stain or dawning realisation. It was a specific moment at around 11am.
The Mighty-Headed boy and I had stepped out early. The whole family are anti-biotic infused on the end of a week of snotula dynamics. I have pushed through man-flu that would floor a horse, never complaining, coughing in private, whilst hunting and gathering by daylight – changing nappies by night; it’s the man way.
My Mighty-Headed boy is 17 months of excitement and constant noise. He was keen to see the renovations at the Nido ranch and to find out what double whammy of hairdresser and Costa Express could fill the mini parade opposite East Didsbury station.
We had our first trip in a trolley round Tescos. His general wonderment and quietness is something I’m not expecting to be repeated but on our return, life changed.
We arrived home. Didsbury Son beckoned me towards him. Distracted; I leaned in. In slow motion I saw his hands go to my arm and heard the words, as though through a tunnel.
“A pinch and a punch for the first of the month, slip slap, no comeback. ”
Defeat . A run lasting as many months as there has been Didsbury Son. On the same step where we have shared picnics, called the moon and watched the world. Done . Like a kipper ( other cliches are available).
He turned and paraded, I shrank and looked down to where the Mighty-Headed boy was trying to eat a newspaper and told him, “Son, I’m 40.” ( plus many weeks) cue Happy Mondays.