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 “The Guardian”

Sweet Home Alabama: Do they have a Cafe Nero?

I am sitting at the back of a hot room listening to a man who looks like a refugee from a Lynyrd Skynyrd video. He is telling us about how he is a creative whose job title can’t be defined. How very very creative, his lack of definition is not endearing. I can think of a four-letter word beginning and ending in T but one that is not a pallendrome. This is the first time I’ve been able to drift into a few thoughts for a few weeks. So here comes the splurge.

I have several days in a guilded City delivering something mediaish and exciting. It’s my spring job; annual, stressful in the most exciting way and as with 99% of the careers I have had – does not mix with babies and is a lovely niche.

Normally a few days working away is something I would grasp chirpily, feigning sadness at being able to go to the bathroom without holding at least one child, grimacing at the thought of not being woken by tiny fingers up my nose – you know , the usual. But this time, nothing. Something sinister has happened. Another platitude has reared it’s cliched head like a toy with a primary colour.

When I kissed the children before they left for school and childminder I filled up as though this were some important cup match and they were my team running out to play.
As Didsbury Son mooched down to the bus stop, pitch oscillating and mood following, I had to fight the urge to follow. When my boddlers left I waved them off, turning to the JP Morgan of Catnip for solace as they disappeared by bus and people carrier.

For the umpteenth time this year I surveyed the scene and wondered when all this became mine. Children, plastic weightless and all pervading mess, creaking knees and a cup way more than half full, but probably containing cat food, a toy and baby spit.

Now if I was writing an American dad’s blog I could say they weren’t mine, just loaned from God or Colnel Sanders. If I was not in Didsbury, I could have gone inside, packed and gone to work.

But

I am a Didsbury Dad so I took the only possible route. Coffee at Didsbury Deli, a peruse of The Guardian, a quick discussion about Nido’s new incarnation and then I got blocked in by some rude mother in a people carrier who thinks the school run is Tron.

Silly hat day will be a few days late

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Iggle Piggle Saves A Big Night Out

At a sophisticated soirĂ©e we went to last week we covered all the current serious topics. Mandela’s legacy, Syria and Breaking Bad.

As the Co -Op Prosecco flowed, we nodded sagely and spouted Guardian editorials. It could only have been duller had I been forced to feign interest in The Ashes or we had got onto smacking, acceptable or not.

The first time I was dragged into this room splitter I misheard the start and thought we were discussing snacking. It made for an awkward evening.

As Didsbury Wife and I counted the minutes until we could go home, this promised to be more disappointing than the first half of Homeland series 3 until…

Conversation turned towards the power of In the Night Garden. I have long admired Derek Jacobi’s work – apart from the thing with Gandalf but ITNG is sublime. The drama of the reveal, Ninky or Pinky? The utter joy of the Tombliboos, the slight unease about Macca Pacca. Why the trike and is that thing on his back a Haemorrhoid?

This discussion led to a sing song and joy all around. Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder but one day those Pontipine kids may suffer for sharing a room with their seven siblings and their parents.

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Princess Zelda or a crate of Prosecco? The ultimate parental dilemma. Empty seats, always visually interesting

Scans, scams and taxis

I had a terrible flash forward at the weekend. I have seen the future and it’s expensive, slow and not good for the knees.
Now newly ensconced in big school, Didsbury Son had a Saturday morning something or other to get to for 9am. Didsbury Wife, now 35 weeks pregnant and moving like an England central defender needed John Lewis nursery department and a school outfitters with which to argue. Didsbury Son had then concocted an arrangement including walking around with a friend, computers and a park. Didsbury Wife spends most nights trawling the Internet with other nocturnal and insomniac mothers-to-be and Didsbury Fat Cat had his eye on the M&S chicken I had been marinading.

Like a seemingly innocuous introduction to Casualty when you know the cutest of kittens will set off a chain of events that leaves several people limbless in a shopping centre in Holby, I walked blindly into this domestic version of daddom diabolic.

Preparing Didsbury Wife to leave the house now has more similarities with turning a tanker than popping out for a coffee. Didsbury Son’s ability to lose objects he owns is consistent, impressive and one great trait he inherited from me. If I actually leave our road without at least 2 trips back for phone, keys, glasses, wallet, pass It means I have to spend a day without them.

My planned Saturday, 5Live, David Pluck, SkySports and The Guardian were soon to disintegrate.

After 6 hours of school, John Lewis, Monkhouses, school, Didsbury Son friend, Didsbury wife hair appointment, picking up a lost Didsbury Son and getting everyone home I realised two things
1: with twins on the way my role as driver and roving cashpoint were now established until at least the 22/23 season.
2: My own Didsbury Dad’s ability to disappear into a quiet room at every opportunity is a skill to master.

I also found out that betting on your phone in a school car park on the 2.20 at Chester is the self-esteem equivalent of changing for games next to the biggest kid in the class.

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