Didsbury son was away with cousins and grandparents on a cultural, being spoiled weekend in Stratford. A play, 5 meals a day plus snacks and the cultural delights of the Stratford-upon-Avon poundstretcher big chocolate bar offer made it a hit. He had an unforgettable time that left him tired and over emotional for at least three days.
A weekend to ourselves, a full tank of petrol, a full head of hair, some cash to play with and fires to be lit heralding our independence; lock up your late licence Didsbury Dad is back on the town.
For three weeks we talked through options. Should we start the day with a bottle in bed before we get up and then sway through the day until we end up in some boozy, bluesy joint, jamming with the North’s glitterati? We could throw that fabulous dinner party and repay the invitations that have have accrued; I am even willing to have the heating on ALL day. I suggested a walking tour of Didsbury’s delis from Burton Road to Parrs Wood until I passed out. Or we could lie-in, yes lie-in, read the papers, make plans and head to our favourite tapas bar on Beech Road in Chorlton (I know, but I try to embrace foreign climes every now and then) before descending into a chorizo and Rioja induced stupor having righted everything in our and everyone else’s world.
I toyed with a trip North to watch football, a day in London, a trip to the cinema for something more enticing than a PG CGI Dancing Lion and wallowed in the possibilities of a 48 hour pass.
So there we were, me and Didsbury Wife. 7pm Saturday night, on the couch watching the average Horrible Bosses on an allegedly Sony HD video stream that seized up every 37 seconds (precise if nothing else). In front of us in the table we had laid waste to a pot coffee and a small bar of chocolate. There had been a trip to the hairdressers, a visit to a new nephew and we did make it for tapas; but after 2 drinks we came home.
Bliss. With a mouthful of coffee and chocolate and a film that could barely sustain interest we revelled in… Doing nothing. However I did get to watch Match of the Day and tidy a cupboard or two.
That was it. Really. That was it. The opportunity came and went and when Didsbury son returned, full of joie de vivre, sugar and lack of sleep we had nothing to interrupt the Burroughs esque narrative.
So, this weekend. There is a hint of sniffling and coughing that looks like it could develop into a lie-in verging on man-flu. Notions of Christmas shopping, decoration and preparation could take a back seat whilst the heating goes on, the chocolate comes out and the video stream fails regularly.