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 “Wayne Rooney”

Sew-In: An Epitaph

Our cultural icons are changing – the old order is gone. It’s not just Didsbury Son’s teenage advancement with its shedding of childhood. David Beckham’s latest tattoo barely raised more than a dozen front covers, Last Friday night on the last Metro home no one sang an Oasis song with that adenoidal mispronunciation so loved of drunk 40 something’s and now, slipping away on the tide like Wayne Rooney’s hair pre-weave, Sew-In has gone.    Personal tributes across Didsbury
We can no longer boast that Didsbury has a Zizzi and. Knitting shop. 

Last night, as the Didsbury Dad family massed on our triumphant return to Didsbury after 24 Hours away we saw (or is it Sew’d) our reflection through the echoing chambers of emptiness. The big ” To Let” sign now seems to taunt us. Not even the new billboard showcasing Julian Wadden’s latest Tory cabinet look-a-like to join one of Didsbury’s top two purple Estate Agents lifted our mood. 
Didsbury Wife and Son have actually made things from material at Sew-In and when he was a little squeaking 5am riser we wrapped ourselves in Sew-In ribbons as a birthday present for Didsbury Wife.
But like Inmans, Woolworths and walking up the disused railway line the tradition stops here. I never really liked going in there – I think they could tell my dexterity did not extend beyond a handshake and my occasional visits were treated with the glee of a corner shop welcoming more than 2 schoolchildren at any one time. I had to read my order from a list and clearly had no idea what I was asking for.
  The window display often attracted people from yards away. 
So farewell to rainbow wool and the best ribbon in Manchester. As we stood silently to pay our respects to this fallen hero of an age when people are Snapchatting their knitting patterns and few remember Thora Hird I gripped Didsbury Wife, sniffed back a tear and said a silent thank you that none of us know any James Blunt songs. 

– please take a minute to listen to Neil Young’s tribute to knitting shops – The Needle and the Damage Done. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=k0t0EW6z8a0

Bedknobs, Broomsticks, Wayne Rooney and stretched concentration

Hell is the consolation for those who turn their backs on forgiveness. Hell and a three-hour training session delivered via PowerPoint by someone who thinks adding an exclamation mark to a sentence is comedy and showing a years old badly-taken pet picture is a way of being endearing.

They aren’t. The exclamation marks merely emphasise the inability to write a funny sentence, the dog is now a four-foot, eight stone, child menace and I am so bored I am re-running this morning’s episodes of Peppa Pig and wondering if Daddy Pig is a loveable, laid-back boar or an idiot.

As we moved on to numbers of emails etc. I imagined the cartoon animals from Bedknobs and Broomsticks beating England 2-1 in the World Cup, whilst the TV Pundits described the Hippo as “too much of a handful for Wayne Rooney and Leighton Baines”.

This is sadly the root of all daddom “Do as I say, not as I do.”

Didsbury Son’s last parents’ evening was a joy. Searching to be critical, the only notes that came back were that he sometimes drifted and was distracted. I zoned out of the rest as there was a great picture behind her but lalala – pay more attention.

I realised that this is not a character flaw, this is in our DNA; like Male patterned Baldness, the magnetic attraction of hand to trousers whilst watching TV and a mistrust of weekends with more than one immovable event.

As I look around the room at my fellow trainees, the male contingent are all doodling, gaming, reading twitter feeds or are asleep.
This debunks the lack of Multi-tasking within men. Each person here can give you a breakdown of the event despite 3 hours spent catching up on emails. It’s the ancient skill, akin to sleeping with one eye open.
At 5.30am, singing “Twinkle Twinkle” for the 5th time, it is the only way to survive.

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Shiny object / calm place / shiny object / calm place

A sound to make a parent quiver.

We have walked up the Acropolis at midday. We have driven France end to end in one go and I have braved the “wrong end” at a Local Derby. This week we have taken the spirit of adventure and the power of Northern stubbornness and pushed that envelope one letterbox farther than even we thought possible.

This week we have had all 5 of the Didsbury Family sharing a tin can in Wales. What better way to relax away the stress of life than the bright sunshine and occasional above freezing temperatures that Wales offers at this time of year?

For me there is little to beat the glamour of needing your glasses on as you tramp across gravel in your pyjamas to use a Siberian toilet, to ensure you fill your kettle from the tap marked “drinking water”, not “grey waste”. What is grey waste? I thought he was one of Ben 10’s incarnation or a euphemism for getting a job at B&Q.

Anyway, as Didsbury Wife and I lay shivering with the blistering light and insipid heat of a Halogen heater casting a neon shadow across our van we counted our blessings.

Didsbury Son lay cocooned on what had been the master bed – warm and with room to move. The Mighty-Headed boy and the pearl-delicate girl lay between Didsbury Wife and I whilst we perched on the edge of the Transformer Sofa. He was calm having been fed and top-to-toe changed at 3am and she snuffled, too small for the cold that had wrapped itself up in her. We counted blessings for a bit then got bored and thought it would be much more fun to share a sneaky 4am snipe about the non-advertised, worst bits of babies per se and twins particularly.

After sharing the joint pain of permanent lift/shift/soothe/rock x 2, the unfeasible level of Boots points accrued in 6 months, the lack of clothes without milky sick patterns, the inability to hold a coherent conversation or stay awake without the prompt of screwming after 9pm we hit upon it. The worst sound in the world. A small, almost innocuous sound that strikes fear into parents and can lead a grown man to tears in the middle of the night. It is not a sound that emanates from any part of a baby. It is not White Noise, high frequency or loud. It can best be described as a “put”. A quiet “put” which tells you that the soother (dummy – Didsbury Son thought dummies were Chavvi so we don’t have them – we have “soothers” that are dummy shaped) has hit the sheet.
This little noise means your baby (ies) is/are about to wake up and you are not going back to sleep.

That little pop from beautiful mouth to sheet means you are about to contort your wrists to arthritis trying to find the soft wet bit of your baby’s face to put it back in and somehow keep it there. It can “put” dozens of times before one of you gives in. It is the tiny sound to stop you in your tracks as you try and quietly sneak out of a nursery. That 3 inches drop strikes terror into me that a nappy explosion encompassing full body changing gets nowhere near. It is the sound of your night disappearing, your tea going cold or your beer going flat. It is the sound of your partner being asleep before you get to bed. It is the sound of your next day at work going awry.
Oh how we laughed as we “putted”. Sadly, we laughed too loud and woke up the twins.

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Minecraft. More interesting than Ben 10.

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