Richard Baum

So I went to a wedding this weekend, the entertainment part of which was a “Ceilidh” - Scottish dancing which is like Working Men’s Club Linedance night crossed with a fiddle and an accordion, all set to the dictatorial shouting of a man in a kilt. I was dreading it, but in truth it was actually very enjoyable, and I now regret my overly negative build-up in Friday’s post. Yes, I did look like a cross between a marionette and a man being executed by Old Sparky, but I had a splendid time, and can now do-si-do with only minor bruising.

The wedding itself was fairly uneventful (although the bride and groom, one of whom was friends with Tam, neither of whom were friends with me, probably thought different). The major incident of note was that the church organ failed halfway through the ceremony, and refused to be revived. The bride remained calm, although I would have been livid. The last thing any newlyweds want for the wedding night is a malfunctioning organ.

Of course I still found the wedding hugely distressing, as someone else my age surrenders their childhood in a blaze of veils and cravats, and hurtles headlong into cosy middle-aged domesticity without a thought for the simmering resentment that must surely, surely, be dangerously building up within them as their lives turn into monotonous net-curtain-grey deserts of boredom. Why do they do it? How can they do it? Is the groom secretly Jerry Lee Lewis? Next time I go to the wedding of a friend I may hum “Great Balls of Fire” during a quiet part of the ceremony just to check. Crazy stuff that we children, who just yesterday were chucking frisbees about in the back garden, are now marrying each other. It’s like I’ve joined a cult and not realised.

I’ve given this a lot of airtime on here before, so I won’t delve into it again now. But it’s a good job I didn’t know bride or groom this weekend, or else I may well have tried to stop the whole thing and ordered us all back to school where we belong.

I have come home to quite a few bits of casework from residents. Once again the issue of litter in Prestwich Village refuses to go away and leave me in peace. There seems to be a particular problem with smokers confusing the pavement with the bin, and dropping their cigarette butts all over it outside The Fairfax pub. So I have asked for extra enforcement action. And by “extra,” I actually mean of course “any,” since there doesn’t seem to be any ever, and litter droppers would have to be both filthy and extremely unlucky to get caught as things stand at the moment. In my view, it’s no good bragging about the potential for fines if there’s never anyone there to dole them out. I know resources are tight, so I have asked for a targeted “spree” of enforcement as a minimum, so that people are aware that there will be some come-back if they continue to spew litter out like a catherine-wheel-cum-bin-explosion.

The Ruskin Road gardens issue has also been on the agenda over the weekend, after featuring in the Manchester Evening News and on BBC1’s “Northwest Tonight” on Friday. I am glad that the press release from the Lib Dems in Prestwich has had some effect on the media, even if, at the moment, our please to the Council are falling on less than receptive ears. I have been chasing up the Council wondering why the letters they promised 10 days ago offering 1-2-1 meetings with residents haven’t been written yet.

And I have made further contact with Six Town Housing over the ongoing issue of the damp flat and the ill baby. Their response of “Well, yeah, we know the baby’s sick but there’s a waiting list and she’s on the bottom of it. See you in three weeks” was about as acceptable as me wearing a white dress with a train to this weekend’s wedding and shouting obscenities during the exchange of rings, and so I have asked Six Town as politely as my rage would allow to think again and give this case the priority it deserves. They appear happy to see babies ill. I am not.

Hopefully we can progress these cases this week. I will keep you informed.

Sunday nights are obviously the most awful of the week, made all the more simply unbearable by Strictly Come Dancing. I hope your’s is OK.

Rick