I am sat in front of my computer wearing a dressing gown on a Saturday night at ten o’clock. Any fading memory of my loud and raucous youth has disappeared completely this evening, as I have forsaken the lure of a party to sit and write a draft of the Prestwich Plan.

However, my choice to swap socialising for solitary typing was made easier by an attack of Man Flu which has crippled me this evening, and turned me from erudite man about town, to groaning misery. It began during the FA Cup Final, a match normally so boring that it brings on comas, but today able to start a throbbing in a part of my head I can only reasonably call my brain stem.

This is a worrying part of the body to have anything abnormal going on in, and it has since spread to the rest of my skull, resulting in the type of regular throbbing that makes me think my head contains not just a brain but a high performance Swiss timepiece.

I am supposed to be running the Great Manchester Run tomorrow. This was already an unpleasant prospect, and is now rendered about as palatable as sharing a surfing lesson with Jaws. If I survive the night at all, I will make a decision about whether to run or not in the morning. I am relying on the healing powers of Lucozade and grapes in the meantime, and right now I am going to bed.

I may be gone for some time.

Rick

At my party on Saturday, a friend of mine who I’ve known since three minutes after I started university, and who has recently married, announced that she was now pregnant. I was overjoyed at the news, cooing around the place like a demented owl and generally doubting my own gender by getting the types of broody feelings I’m not sure men are biologically supposed to get. It was the best news I’d heard all year.

But now, two days and one clean-up later, I find myself asking how on earth this managed to happen. Obviously I have moved on from the biological now. My parents taught me about the dangers of baths that are too hot, and of cabbage patches years ago, and I tell Tam never to take such baths or eat such vegetables because I know we’re just not ready for children yet. No, I don’t mean how she managed to get pregnant in the first place, but how in the name of all that’s rational I came to be old enough not only to have friends who are married, but friends who are now carrying children of their own.

Does this sudden dismay happen to other people? Do others ever just stop for a moment and think about how many decades their inner-selves are from their outer-selves? Is there a cure?

Yesterday, and I mean, literally, yesterday, I was six years old. I lived in a house with my parents and sister, I went to primary school, and I played with a plastic football and Lego bricks. There is no way, NO WAY, that anyone in my peer group is now old enough to have a baby, without them being the talk of the town and rightly whisked off to a country house supervised by sadistic Irish nuns. And yet, it turns out that they are all old enough. How did this happen?

There was someone else at the party, a friend of Tam’s, who has gone through the whole pregnancy thing already, and emerged out the other end with a real child. A “Francesca” that breathes and cries and will soon walk and talk. How could she have done such a thing and survived? Here she is, with a baby, still managing to do normal things like engage in conversation and drive a car, and here I am struggling to come up with the necessary commitment to bung a pizza in the oven for 15 minutes. If I had an actual baby, I really don’t understand how I would be able to do anything other than act like a jibbering wreck.

I can pin-point the exact moment when we suddenly stopped being the young generation and started being the middle one. It was 19:50 on October 31st 2006, when the last of my grandparents died, and there was absolutely nothing and nobody standing between my parents and The Great Hereafter. The shield that separated my cosy little childhood from nasty things like time’s irritating ticking disappeared. But I didn’t have to do anything about it then. I could just pretend to still reside in kid-hood, because there was no-one beneath me coming up on the rails. Now that’s changed too, and there is no place in the play-pen left for me. I’m going to be shoved out of it by a gurgling newcomer who is the product of someone who was, last week, LAST WEEK I tell you, the 18 year old fresher at university tumbling about the place without a care in the world. And now she has travel-cots and stuff that pumps things. It’s unpleasant for any number of reasons.

I have a responsible job. I am elected to public office for God’s sake. People ask me to do things for them, and they get done. I debate issues that matter and people ask me for advice. And yet, in my head, I just can’t contemplate that it is even conceivable that a peer of mine is doing something this grown up. An actual baby, that will be here after we’re gone and will have babies of its own.  

I probably grossly undercooked a sausage or two at my party. I thought quite often about the mountain of debt it is necessary to tunnel into to afford the mortgage on the house. And I let two dozen people drink red wine near my cream sofas. But the one truly frightening thing about Saturday night was the thought that in six months time there’ll be a little one amongst us and we really really won’t be those kids who met on the first day of university any more.

Which would be a sad thought, were I not still absolutely gob-smacked with delight about the whole thing.

Rick

The weekend just gone saw my house well and truly “warmed,” when a large throng of people descended on it and risked their lives by taking part in that most extreme of sports – eating food barbecued by me.

The death count is currently static and zero, but can only move one way, and since the gestation period of whatever bacteria I have infected my friends with is probably a good few days, I am expected a flurry of angry and vomit-interrupted phone calls towards the end of the week.

There were representatives from every walk of my life there in the garden on Saturday night – neighbours, old friends, fellow Lib Dem types, strangers who claimed to be friends with Tam… And obviously because we all lead contented lives where our every whim is catered for in a blizzard of effortless consumerism, nobody could be bothered putting in the necessary legwork and making new friends any more. So we had the odd scenario which I see at weddings whereby the assembled crowd split off into sects, not intermingling except for laboured small talk in the queue for food. I am equally guilty of being simply too lazy to bother making friends with new people. Occasionally someone new sneaks in by the back door, just appearing at enough functions that I’m also at so that my ignoring turns to gruff nodding, then to an acknowledging smile, until eventually conversation turns to mutual ground like the fact that we keep bumping into each other at interminable social events. But mainly, I’m sorry to say, my friendship train left the station long ago.

So on Saturday I got a taste of what it must be like having a wedding of my own – being happy that everyone I love is in the same room for pretty much the only time in my life, but then spending the whole time panicking that I can’t get round to see them all. There really is a lot to be said for granting audiences with people at individual time-slots. At least then I could ask the sort of probing questions about new boyfriends that I really want to ask, rather than just glancing across rooms at laughing crowds that should have me in them, and making sure everyone has enough wine in their re-usable plastic cup.

The perfect way to get rid of hangovers, whilst simultaneously fulfilling community duty, is to attend the Annual Prestwich Clough Day. Happily for all concerned, this was yesterday, and once again was an absolutely excellent event of which our whole area can be proud. The weather was perfect, unlike last year when, as I recall, Prestwich was visited by the monsoon. This year the brass bands weren’t using their trumpets as snorkels, which is always a good sign for an outdoor event, I find.

As in previous years there were some excellent stands, full of information from community groups, the Council, local charities and societies. I learned a lot about the very exciting developments from the Forestry Commission in the Drinkwater Park area over the coming months – there are going to be some beautiful new developments, by the sounds of it. There were also animals to view – birds of prey and hedgehogs received plenty of attention from the guests who I’d brought along post-housewarming.

I think there were more people there than I’d seen in previous years too. I was there from the beginning right through until near the end, and it was a hugely successful event which showed our district off for the vibrant and friendly place it really is. Enormous credit must go to the organisers and those who gave up their time to make the stalls a success. Their efforts really did make an enormously positive impression. Here’s to next year.

Rick

There’s more canvassing and leafleting tonight, as the campaign continues. I can only hope that the warm reception we’ve been getting continues tonight. It’s been great so far, and I’d like to thank everyone we’ve met who has been so kind and supportive.

After canvassing tonight, I am attending the annual open evening of “Northern Air,” the hospital radio station of North Manchester General Hospital, of which I have been involved for the last ten years. I was an active member of Northern Air for about four years in total, over two spells, and have been in touch with the station and supportive of their efforts for the rest of the time too. Now I remain a member and attend special events, but sadly can’t help out much more very often because most of my time outside of work is taken up with being a Councillor.

I think hospital broadcasting is an excellent volunteering activity, providing enormous benefits both to the patients in hospital, and the volunteers themselves. When I used to visit the wards collecting record requests and talking to patients, it was wonderful to hear how they liked listening to our programmes. I know that for many volunteers this is the undoubted highlight of the whole experience. But others can learn very useful media skills in radio presentation and production, as well as making the types of contacts necessary for a career in the industry. I used to have great fun writing and presenting radio shows, and made lots of friends with whom I’m still in touch now. There are some lovely people involved in volunteering, and I would urge anyone who’s thought about giving their free time to do any sort of voluntary activity to give it a go. You’ve really got nothing to lose.

Hospital radio was the one for me. My dad did it years ago, and because I always fancied myself as a bit of a DJ, and thought that this would be a good way of learning the ropes as well as helping people out! It turned out that I wasn’t much cop at the radio lark, but I enjoyed getting involved in the community, and that’s obviously led to other things. That’s not to say that everyone taking to the airwaves on hospital stations is as rubbish as I was! Plenty of well known names in radio have started in hospitals, including Ken Bruce, Pete and Geoff and Nemone, (the latter two actually at Northern Air), as well as countless others both in front of the microphone and behind the scenes. Terry Wogan is in fact closely involved with the Hospital Broadcasting Association.

The Mayor of Bury, Councillor Dr Farook Chaudhry, will also be in attendance at the open evening tonight, as the guest of honour, and although I won’t be there in my role as Councillor, I hope to be able to welcome him and introduce him to some of the very dedicated volunteers who help run the station. The efforts that they put in, giving of their own free time to help sick people in hospital feel better, and to help young people develop new skills, really is extraordinary. It is great that the station opens its doors like this every year and is so warmly received by the community. 

If you would like to find out more about Northern Air and the hospital radio service that it provides, or perhaps are interested in becoming a volunteer, drop in tonight. The broadcasting studio is located next to the Trust HQ building at North Manchester General Hospital, on Delaunays Road in Crumpsall. And if you can’t make it tonight, you can call the station on 0161 740 7474. 

Rick

God’s continual mocking of me shows no sign of abating. We have an arrangement, Him and I, whereby I try my best to do good things, and He amuses Himself by plonking annoying but ultimately quite funny trials in my path, which in turn then never leave me short of things to write about on here.

I was woken last night at 01:00 by the sound of my wheely bin blowing over in gale force winds and driving rain. I wandered over to the window to take a look, and saw the contents of the bin strewn across the road and blowing around the neighbourhood.

Not a pleasant sight at that time in the morning.

Undaunted, I put on the first two items of clothing that came to hand (dressing gown and work shoes) and headed out into the street, to spend the next ten minutes battling against The Perfect Storm to retrieve a week’s worth of rotting food and general horror from my neighbour’s shrubs.

I respected bin men before, and now I do even more. Although last night’s work had more in common with body-exhumers than bin men, I’m sure. And I bet they don’t have to tackle our rubbish in the middle of the night dressed only in a towelling robe.

So I am tired today. But I will still find time later on to do some Councillor work – I am out leafleting this evening in the north of the ward, assuming that the weather doesn’t put on its angry face again and leave me looking mournfully out of my lounge window at a world sailing off in a storm somewhere.

Rick

Today I am back in work, after a busy weekend of furniture buying and general house planning. All very exciting. The delivery of the white good spassed with only moderate difficulties. Apparently we have plumbing “issues” which will mean the hiring of somebody who knows more about pipes than I do, to make the dishwasher work.

As well as the house, I dealt with ward issues over the weekend. First off there was a sewage leak down Clifton Road, which I was alerted to on Friday night. This is a United Utilities issue rather than a Council issue, but I chased it up over the weekend in conjunction with the resident concerned, and I am hopeful that the engineers will sort out the problem today.

Also, I heard from a resident of Sherbourne Court that she was having a problem with squirrels in her loft space. Apparently they are being very noisy (probably storing nuts…). I have been talking to Pest Control about the problem, and to Six Town Housing about whether or not it is up to the tenant or STH to pay the charge.

Lofts have also been on my personal agenda, since we’re having the new one boarded. I have got a guy to come and install a ladder, which will hopefully minimize the currently-quite-high possibility of me tumbling to my death whilst attempting to access the roof space.

Tonight it’s the Bury Holocaust Memorial Service in Radclifee, so I’ll be going to that. I will report back tomorrow on what I’m sure will be an excellent and moving ceremony in which all of our diverse community can take part.

Rick

Well, it has finally happened. After more to-ing and fro-ing between estate agents, solicitors and the most bitter recesses of my brain than I care to remember, I am finally a home-owner.

At midday, the solicitors rang to inform me that I now owe the Nationwide a staggering sum of money. And then a minute later the estate agents rang to offer me two sets of keys in return for my soul. It seemed a fair deal to me, and I’ll be picking them up at 4.

This evening Tamsin and I are going to sit on the floor of our empty house and eat fish and chips, whilst plotting what should go where. I have already come to the conclusion that she should go in the shed.

We won’t officially move in until Valentine’s Day. This is less to do with romance and more to do with the date we pay rent each month, but the coincidence is a happy one, and probably saves me a trip to the florists.

Between now and then we are buying, taking delivery of, and assembling various goods. Tomorrow, for instance, the fridge, freezer, dishwasher and washer/dryer arrive in the back of a Curry’s lorry. So apologies to my new neighbours for that. And then we have the very modern joy of buying virtually everything else in flat-pack form and spending the next fortnight turning allen keys until planks of plywood are transformed into beautiful side-boards.

But all this activity won’t stop work in the ward. The new St Mary’s Focus has been printed and folded, and is now ready for distribution across the ward. So expect one through your letterbox in the coming weeks, starting this weekend. And throughout the turmoils of rug-buying, finding an acceptable coffee table, and dealing with one too few screws for the bookcase, I will be available to offer any assistance you might need from a Councillor.
Rick

I have just fallen off the post-Christmas diet wagon in spectacular fashion. Using the excuse that “I need some change for a parking meter,” I went to a cash point and then to a cake shop, sandwich bar and sweet stall. And now the bag of fruit which was to be my lunch is sitting on my desk, leering at me. And I feel all salty and horrible after my needless bag of crisps.

I will try to make up for it with a run tonight, but not until I have done some leafleting in the Hilton Lane / Rainsough area. The amount of steps required to get up to some of the houses there will also double-up as some exercise, so with any luck I will have burnt off the excess calories by tea time, just in time to put them back on again. This diet and exercise lark is hard work.

Also tonight I unfurl the first of my boxes, ready to cram them full of the junk which currently clogs my little house and which will, from next week, clog my slightly larger house. I have come to the conclusion that I am a horder. I don’t really know how that makes me feel. Cluttered, I suppose.

Rick

They say that, with the exception of losing a close relative, moving house is the most stressful thing in the world. They obviously haven’t sat through a Prestwich LAP meeting when street cleaning is on the agenda, but other than that minor omission, I reckon they are more or less right.

We are in the process of moving at present. From Clifton Road to Butterstile Close. Last week we exchanged contracts, having been informed by our solicitor to get buildings insurance straight away because “now that you’ve exchanged, if the house blows up you still have to buy it.” With such a ringing endorsement of the joys of home-ownership in my ears, I hurriedly arranged cover, and am due to pick up the keys, explosions permitting, next Friday.

I am fairly lucky in that, because I rent, I don’t have a place to sell, and can gently move in over the course of a month. A knock on effect though of my fixed-abode-free existence up til now is that we haven’t really ever acquired any furniture. And so the plan for this weekend was for me to tip every penny I have ever saved out of my bank account, stroll into Comet, and buy most of their stock. Then do the same in DFS.

Unfortunately the sellers of my house-to-be have gone AWOL and have been incommunicado for the better part of a week (suspiciously, ever since exchanging). As a result we haven’t been able to measure anything, and so are dimension-less prior to our shopping spree. Which wouldn’t be so bad were the sales not about to come grinding to a halt. The TV screamed at me that SCS were having a double discount event this weekend. Not the type of thing I want to miss given my need for a sofa and their need to sell lots of them.

Tonight I peered into their darkened house, and deposited a pleading letter through their door asking if they’d be so kind as to allow me and my tape-measure inside to prevent me buying a sofa that is three inches too wide for the lounge. I have yet to receive a response. And of course the estate agents are about as useful as a mobile disco in a morgue. Quite what the purpose of estate agents is I have never quite fathomed. They are like the irritating middle-men between me and the sane world. When I asked them when it was OK to go around to measure the house, they confidently arranged a time with me, only to ring an hour before I was due to enter and casually drop into the conversation the fact that they’d made the whole thing up and hadn’t ever spoken to the seller at all.

My stresses will continue, I’m guessing, until well after I’ve moved. I started writing a list the other day of people I needed to ring to inform them of a change of address. It was thirty names long before I put it behind the clock on the mantel-piece in the hope that it would go away.

I imagine myself at some point relaxed on a new sofa watching new Sky on a new TV sipping a newly opened can of Dr Pepper in my new lounge and typing on my blog on my new wireless broadband on my new laptop, with my new white goods all whirring simultaneously in the kitchen. Until that point, which I fear may be several months, a bankruptcy and a nervous breakdown away, the stresses continue a-pace.

Rick

I spent the weekend in London, enjoying a three hour traffic-free motorway journey as far as the end of the M4, and then a two hour clogged-up apocalypse between Earl’s Court and my mate’s flat in Streatham. A flat which, rent-wise, sets her back as much as a genuine palace bedecked with jewels and minarets would do up here.

Why anyone lives in the traffic-soaked and unceasingly busy spiders-web of ramshackle flats that is London, is a mystery to me. And yet so many people I know do, which means I have to go there more often than I’d like. Unless you’re Frank Lampard on £120,000 a week, with your Bentley Continental gliding effortlessly between luxurious city abodes, living in London must be an unendurable nightmare of crowds, sky-high prices for everything, and take-away fried chicken restaurants.

Still, a number of likeable souls live there, and we all ended up watching a comedy evening in a pub in Balham (that’ll be sixteen pounds to get in, sir).

My trip down south meant a weekend off duty in Prestwich, although the week ahead is very busy indeed. Today I have already contacted the Council to once again chase up the planned improvements to the junction of St Ann’s Road and Bury New Road. The junction in its present form looks like the work of an evil scientist bent on causing mayhem and destruction, but keeping it peculiarly restricted to minor road accidents. The pedestrian crossing is not only a ludicrously short distance away from then main crossing, but is out of sync as well, meaning that cars and pedestrians get confused, nobody knows what’s going on half the time, and it’s pretty miraculous that nothing serious has happened. I received another report of a minor accident there today, so it’s about time the Council followed up on their promise to get it sorted by the end of the financial year. I will keep you posted.

This week it’s the Prestwich Local Area Partnership, which takes place tomorrow night at St Monica’s School (on Bury Old Road, near to the junction with Scholes Lane / Sheepfoot Lane). The meeting starts at 18.30 with LAP business and reporting back from sub-committees and the like. The public forum starts at 19.30, when you will have the chance to grill LAP members including all of your local Councillors. So if you have a burning issue you’d like to bring up about anything we might be able to help you with, please come on down and take the opportunity to raise it.

On Thursday it’s another  Rainsough TRA meeting, where we can update the residents on what’s been going on, and hear back from them on what they’ve been getting upto. Obviously the main issue at present is the Chapel Road shops and the potential conversion of one or more units into an outreach facility for the Children’s Centre. We have secured money from Bury Council, and despite my overtures to Labour-run Salford City Council for funding from them (the shops belong to them even though the residents / tenants pay council tax / rent to Bury) they have not come up with funding yet. I hope they come up with it soon, because if it isn’t spent by 31^st March then the grant we’ve got become worthless, and so much effort will have been wasted.

On top of my meetings this week I have an interview tonight with a local researcher about anti-Semitism. And I also have the City v West Ham replay on Wednesday. All of which means that poor Tamsin is left to measure up for furniture on our new house by herself, because I am out every night! We finally exchanged contracts on Friday, and will be moving in early February. People keep asking if I’m celebrating, but frankly the thought of having just signed my life away to a bank for twenty five years makes me want to do anything but! I will probably write (significantly) more about developments as they occur.

Rick