It's been a while, hasn't it?

It sure has - and so much has happened since I last caught up with you all. What kind of thing? Well how about:

• Quitting my job - part one, part two, epilogue
• Joining the gym, losing 21-ish lbs
• Visiting the Tower of London - it's awesome!
• My sister's had a baby, a healthy girl called Baden Rose
• Finding out about JET - I'm in!
• Having an inpromptu Parsonage reunion
• Deciding to move to London for July

And that's just for the start of things, really. Busy busy busy. It's cheating I know, but I'll be backdating a few posts to fill in the gaps, and back-linking this post to them retrospectively.

And it's the end of things too. A kind of end at least. My last bullet point is the clue: no more Manchester. So no more DTRMCR? Well, let's see...

Impromptu Parsonage Reunion

Man, I love these guys.

It's not a gym Clare.

Why are you doing press-ups here in the German Markets? You should take it easy on the training you know. Relax a little.

Wizard’s Sleeve, F.L.A.M.E ,Clown’s Pocket and so on

The scratch-marks down my back burned all evening; it had been an intense afternoon. I headed home after we’d eaten spaghetti, and went to ready myself for Eileen’s 30th birthday. Dunk and Kate were sat at the kitchen table when I arrived, eating pizza. We chewed the fat over a cider, and it was lovely.

A pint of treacle.

Clare called – did I want to meet her and Woody for a stroll along the Mersey? Yes, of course. I took my bike down, and met them between the Parkway and the Water Park. Woody hadn’t really been down there before, and seemed to really enjoy it. The first pint at Jackson’s Boat was a struggle. “Bettsy’s friend,” said Tom, “calls this ‘The Pint of Treacle,’ because it’s so hard to drink.”

We carried on up towards the Bowling Green to watch the Ireland Australia game, and the treacle soon thawed. It was a tremendous game of rugby. At half time Tom and I nipped out to smoke. My bike was under the guard of two burly police officers. Policing is good at the bottom of Beech Road.

Be a better friend.

Woody's lectures are going to be just round the corner from work. Well, until we move to Moss Side, that is. If we move to Moss Side. He gave me a call as he was walking past my building, and I went to the window to wave at him as we talked. Do I want to go for a pint, he asked? Yes please.

We caught up. His course. My ill-fated cycling excursion. My course. His bar job. Films we'd seen. Music we'd listened to.

Clare joined us, and Ollie, in the BP, and we headed to Didsbury. Clare and I had pasta and pesto. She wept as she told me about work. I felt useless as I watched, offering advice that wasn't very insightful. My work doesn't make me cry, I thought, at least there's strength there. She apologised, poor love. Is there anything I can do to help, I wondered. Yes. Be a better friend.

Kumbi was in O'Neill's with Steve, Craig and the other Fordbankers. She's not working because of problems with her permit. Will they throw her out, and back to Zimbabwe? Poor love.

I'm a walkin' in the rain....

Matt and Chaw were out, and Kate was working, so I spent most of the day to myself. I read the end of Pollen by Jeff Noon, which dragged rather towards the end (weird, in that I really struggled to put it down when I first started to read it - like an amazing first date then a terrible second one), and got through the rest of the Economist from the day before.

For want of a little entertainment, I threw some borrowed tools in a bag and strolled down to Clare's to give them back to her. She was watching the Wire with Tom, and we had a cup of tea or two and chat. Ollie came round too. It was Bettsy's stag do last night. I wasn't invited, for obvious reasons. So it goes. I walked home in the rain.

Only one more day of antibiotics to go. God I miss booze!

Impromtu barbecue

I hosted a barbecue for seven this evening, without really meaning to. Woody left his fresh herbs under my care during Glastonbury, and they grew and grew during that time. When I saw Clare for lunch yesterday, I suggested that she should come to my house to collect them.

“Why not come for food too?”
“It’s nice out. Why not have a barbecue?”
“Why not indeed?”

Zoe, Woody, Durex, Paul and Ollie all came by too. The house and garden went down a storm, and the company was great. I’m still a little nervous that the house is a long way for people to come too, especially from Didsbury, but I hope that tonight lessened that psychological distance for my friends.

England vs Argentina

Clare and Paul helped me move house in the morning. Later on, Nick, Kumbi Paul and I went to the England match at Old Trafford. Our seats were so high up in the East Stand that we couldn't see the top half of the goalposts, and couldn't tell if conversions or drop-goals were successful. And there was quite a lot of kicking. The crowd began booing each time ball went to boot. Daft, in that England were fielding a relatively un-tested centre combination, and were never more than a converted try ahead until very close to the end. Bah!

Nick, Kumbi and I went into Chorlton for a couple of pints after the game. Well, more like five pints, as it turned out. Were they more drunk than I was? Well they had started earlier on, during the Lions game.

A drunken punch up at a wedding

In the midst of packing, I got a call from Woody. “Mate…” He was drunk. “…mate, do you want to come to a party?” It was about half-nine. “It’s for Clare’s boss’s daughter’s twenty-first birthday. Free bar.” I put down my boxes and brown tape, and put on my shoes.

If Woody was pissed, then Clare and her colleague Sarah was hammered. “They’ve had two bottles of wine. Each.” said Tom. We set off. However, St John’s church, on Edge Lane, and St John’s parish centre, on High Lane, are not the same place. One is quite a bit further away than the other. And hammered Clare had told us the wrong one. The far one. It was raining. It was cold. The girls were hammered. Tom and I marched ahead, trying to find the place. The girls seemed to stop, and then vanish. They just disappeared.

Calm and rational eyes would have seen the simple truth: we’d set out for the wrong St John’s centre, and the girls, going more slowly, had seen the right one and nipped in away from the rain. Calm and rational eyes. But Woody, drunk, thought Clare, hammered, had ditched us. Deliberately. Uh-oh!

A bit of aggression between them at the (not free, it turned out) bar. Slightly awkward. But not that bad. And then we found a table. Two tables. The girls on one, the boys on the other. Woody was doing that thing where you talk yourself up into being pissed off. “I wouldn’t have done that to her… just out of order… no way…” Sipping my first pint, it all seemed a little silly. Still. We came together. I tried to entertain Sarah as the argument began. Sarah’s quite cute, very indie, very my type. Very attached though. So it goes.

Smoking outside, Tom explained that he was a bit stressed about changing jobs, and that was behind the argument in part. “It’s our first ever argument,” he said with a smile. I’m glad I was there to witness it.

Mock mock

A morning of revision was broken up by a brief turn out to Clare's for an hour at her barbecue. Woody and Clare, Ollie and Z-Box, Chubb and Steve, Max and Wallis, and Paul were there. I hadn't seen anybody in ages - studies before buddies, right? - and I was a little overwhelmed to be faced with so many all at once. Only Milney was missing from five-seven. What a sweltering day. It wasn't easy to tear myself away, but I did, and pedalled off home.

My mock mock exam went pretty well. I wrote about sampling, and about evaluating a research proposal. Checking through the model answers was reassuring. I think I'll do okay tomorrow in my real mock.

Woody and Clare

I met Woody and Clare for a couple of beers after work that developed into a Rain - Temple - Cornerhouse - Solomon's session. "I don't see enough of you mate," said Woody. And it wasn't just the beer talking. I miss my Parsonage crowd really hard sometimes. Evenings and weekends mostly. I should try harder. Do more. Text better. Call more regularly. Share more time.

I don't. My own fault.

Good day, weird evening

After a belting study period in the morning, I met Kate and we checked out the cup cake shop in Chorlton. Lovely! I had Johnny Cash (oreo cookies) and Iggy Pop (vanilla and peanut), and Kate had Omar Sherif (pistachio and Turkish delight) and Chaka Khan (coconut and chocolate). In our sugar high, we charity shopped, and I found American Pie on vinyl for a pound. Smashing stuff!

After a few beers in West Didsbury with Parsonage and 57, I had another one of those weird confidence vacuums, and made my excuses. It had been coming all evening – I’d wobbled on the barbecue and on Ryan’s Irish Centre party – but I was shocked it hit me so hard and so suddenly. It was home or bust, and I went home.

The evening air by Chorlton Park smelt of sulphur, like there’d been a gunshot.

Recession session

I met Woody and Clare for a bite to eat and a chat. Tom was offered voluntary redundancy at the start of the month, said, “yes please,” two weeks ago, and found out today that he is one of the chosen volunteers. He’s planning on going back to uni in September with his payout. He’s in a pretty good situation. Especially compared to Max. Max is in the middle of his professional exams, and has been told that he can apply for a job in the London office if he wants to, but that his Manchester position is no longer viable. Lose your job, AND start again with becoming chartered. It’s worse still, Wallis – working in the same sector – hasn’t been given the flick by work. Max and Wallis live together. Will he go to London without her? I don’t know. Heavy stuff.

Happy Perv-Day to you

Hungover and hungry, I slithered out of bed and met Clare. She hadn’t been home from last night’s fancy-dress party, and so was only an overcoat away from a Greek princess. On the way up to Sol’s we talked about how West Didsbury was changing, how everything was changing, and how natural and normal that was. We ate in Sol’s, then wandered out to Ladybarn park, past Parsonage Road. Clare told me about getting locked out on the roof of Woody’s brother’s apartment in New York.

We circled round through the park, past a group of three or four scallies. One of them, fat, red-faced, hoody, waved and said “You’ve got a bike, we’ve gotta hunt them kids,” to his mate. The biker shrugged, looked away. Fat Red waddled to a hedge gap, a lanky mate ten strides behind him. Clare and I chatted on as we watched two good kids, blue jeans, long hair, bomb over Parrs Wood Road and down Parsonage. The scallies followed then out of our sight. Snow began to fall. By the time we made it to the park gate, the scallies had turned back, sulking, hands in pockets. Further on, down a side street, one of the long-hairs looked round a low wall at the retreat. The other called from eight or ten houses down, “Shall I get my dad?”

Alison and I had a cup of tea at Orlando’s. It was barely three in the afternoon, and the couple behind us were very drunk. They argued loudly. The barman had to go over and have a word. It was awkward and distracting. I felt queasy. Would he hit her at home later? I was glad to be out of there.

I pulled on my Stormtrooper t-shirt and went down to the Met to meet Pervy again. I arrived to see him wearing a Darth Vader t-shirt. Phil was there too. Also in a Stormtrooper t-shirt. We looked like the Three Amigos of Geek. I’m not surprised Phil put his jumper on. Pervy seemed quite underwhelmed by his handmade cock and balls birthday card. After too long in the pub, we picked up a curry and headed back to 46 to enjoy it. At one point, Pervy fell over, landed on his arse, giggled and then squeaked. And again. And then once more. Squeaked? Was that a fart? Was that a high-pitched girly fart? Was that real? It was. As he sat on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, Pervy’s eyes watered with laughter. And we laughed and laughed as well.

The story of my year, in not many words

January: Walking boots, job interview, new phone.
February: Tracy and Kate’s Manchester returns, lots of country walks.
March: The debut of the allotment, Libby and Cardiff.
April: Volunteering, a job offer, a crush on a girl in Waterstone’s.
May: The end of crimefighting, a test match at Old Trafford, a new job.
June: Woody and Clare, the first harvests, meeting Liz.
July: Mostly spent falling in love with Liz.
August: The Green Man, Vicky’s barbecue, Dr Jim’s Bank Holiday visit.
September: Lenny’s birthday, Izzy’s birth and work getting shit.
October: Mark Morriss, breaking up with Liz, ferry across the Mersey
November: The Lever Estate, Fireworks, flat hunting
December: Moving house, an upswing.

“I’m not wearing hockey pads”

I’m not enjoying work much at the moment. My boss came over today to talk to me.

“You look like you’re not enjoying work much at the moment.”
“Oh it’s not work. I’ve got personal problems,” I lied, through gritted teeth.
“You’re sure it’s not the job?”

I blathered on about how stressful moving house was, about Liz, about my shock at Paul and Clare deciding to live together, about anything except how little I enjoyed work. She seemed convinced, concerned and nodding. It wasn’t totally untrue; I didn’t fabricate any problems – each of those things has bummed me out in their own way recently – but I left a pretty big one out of the mix. Work. I can come to her any time with my problems, she said, work-related or not. Well that’s a relief, I didn’t say to myself. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and get to the shops. I finally found a toy for Owen, along with a hat for NYE. Blistering barnacles indeed!

Kate and Dunk popped round for a brew, both sniffly, both bearing gifts. Dunk’s gift rattles, like Lego (I hope!), and Kate’s gift feels bookish. I wonder! Pip popped round too with some homemade chutney. How exciting! With Tracy’s and J___’s gift too, I’ll have a mini Christmas all of my own once I get back to Chorlton on 27th. I’d meant to get on with wrapping gifts, but by the time Pip had left, it was quite late, and I had to cook before I could get my sellotape out, and that was before Kate texted. “Are you going to watch The Dark Knight? We’re watching the Dark Knight, so why not come here to watch it.” How could I say no?

On a second watch, on a smaller screen, I noticed more plotting than I had before. Officer Ramirez is prominent at several key moments, for example, where she seemed inconspicuous first time round. The Hong Kong sequence is very, very cool and I love how tight the first scene is. Lean and wiry dialogue, neat ideas, enough unexpected turns to keep the interest. It sets out the tone for the film, the brutal genius of the main character, and the under-plot with the mafia. I’d downloaded and watched it several times anyway, and it never gets tired. Start with a punch? “POW!”

Helen, Cally, Chorlton.

After delivering my presents to Liz, Paul and Clare, I met up with Helen and Cally on the 23A and breezed into Chorlton for a few drinks. We nipped into my house for a look round, and then I went to collect my Batman DVDs from Dunk while they strolled on ahead down Beech Road. Dunk didn’t look very well, poor thing. After a nightmare trying to get hold of some cash – the pay machine in the shop was empty, as was the one in the Trev – I finally caught up with Helen and Cally in the Lead Station. “Do you realise how stereotypical you’re being?” I asked. Milney knew, the minx. It’s so nice to see her getting on so well with someone who knows her really well, and is gay too. I feel really honoured that Helen has selected me from her friends as the kind of person that would get on with her other friends. It’s a vote of confidence at a time when my confidence is quite low, and so very much appreciated.

Red red wine... goes to my head

I went out on my bike to deliver my Christmas Cards. I used magazines to make the envelopes. I went to Dunk's, Kate's, Pippa's, Clare's, Beaver House, Tall Trees, Old Lansdowne, Cally and Ali's, and Liz's. My bike started to get a flat back tyre as I was nearly home. I rode down Wilbraham Road between Kate's and Pippa's, and down Wilmslow Road between Pippa's and Clare's, and had got pretty close to some rather large vehicles, a skip lorry, a dustbin lorry and several 42 buses. I thought it would be more stressful than it turned out to be. To me as a pedestrian, a cyclist seems tiny next to these behemoths of the road, but as a cyclist I felt bigger and somehow better equipped to handle life as part of the traffic. Must buy a helmet!

Paul was gone when I got home. I boxed a few more things, CDs, extension cables, and built a pile by the door. Paul gave me a guitar and a playstation. He doesn't use them anymore, and I use them all the time. It makes sense I suppose. At around four pm, a massive sense of impending dread and doom swept over me. I'm really leaving Everett court. Fuck me. The evening was one of TV and red wine. Lots of red wine, actually. A half bottle from Thursday night. Another bottle bought with dinner, pizzas from Iffy's. As I watched Mastermind, I noticed that one of the contestants had chosen to specialise in Jonathan Creek, so I texted Rigby. And I got a reply! It said, "Ha ha, who is this?," thought when I identified myself there was nothing else. So it goes. There was and an ill-advised third bottle too, bought at 10.15, in the middle of QI, also from Iffy's. Fifteen regular size glasses of wine. Roughly. A haze. I don't remember how I got into bed.

"You're the worst dancer I've ever seen."

I can't remember exactly when I first went into the cellar bar in Withington. I think it might have been as long ago as December 2005 or January 2006. It was after I'd been to Woody's for Christmas, but before I'd started to drink at the bar at Gina and Sophia's. I bumped into Phil in the street, as he was carrying a chair, and he invited me down for a look. At the time, I think it was going to be called Alioli at the time. After Kate's party, I was invited to the eventual opening night through Facebook, and that was this evening.



I arrived, and it was empty. Ghost town dead. Nice, but deathly quiet. Kate was working - how nice to see her behind a bar in Withington again! Like old times, but with a twist. Soon enough Tag showed up, then Little Laura, then Kate Bell - a compendium of familiar Sol's faces. Steve was a bit surprised to learn that I worked in R___ S____, and that I had been for six months. I was catching up with Kate Bell, and he was shocked to hear the news. Have I been that bad at telling my friends about my job, I wondered. Blimey! Woody, Clare and Paul soon showed up, and we retired to a table (pictured above) for a chat. The general vibe from everybody was that the cellar bar was pretty good. Funky Dunk, Al, Megan and Chaw arrived later on, and we had a de-brief of the party from the weekend. Al thinks I'm a bad dancer. A very bad dancer. Ouch!

Everybody drifted off apart from Pippa. She came and sat with me as I finished my pint and, bless her heart, listened to me complaining again. It seems that everytime I've seen Pip recently I've ended up whinging to her about something or other. What an absolute saint she is.