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All the great things in life come in threes: Back to The Future. The Holy Trinity. Adidas. Leighton Baines.

Similarly, the best stories, such as ‘A Christmas Carol’, delve into the past, present and future – just like the BTTF trilogy did, too – and both prompted big changes in the lifestyles and life journeys of the protagonists they feature.

Meanwhile, I think I’ve started my mid-life crisis: I’m constantly reflecting, documenting and planning – and not just in the day job. I’m adapting my look, buying tuxedos and planning more tattoos… let’s go back to easier times: 1998, to be exact.

The Past

I’ve been living back in the nineties for a while. Fashions, music, memories of growing up… Next week we celebrate two decades since I ran on the pitch on the last day of the season to celebrate survival with ‘Big Rich’ in the rain.

In those twenty odd years since that era, I’ve also become close friends with two men who played integral parts in my own wedding and over Easter, got married themselves.

Two colleagues also tied the knot during the holidays, and we wish all the couples the very best of love and luck in the future.

All the events were special and memorable in their own rights, and a good time was had by all at each – but for very different reasons. On the first occasion, we ended up on the darker side of town until the wee small hours: in fact, the latest night out I’ve had since becoming a father.

Saw one of my favourite paintings… revisited old haunts.

Drinking shots with ex pupils, we had a great time, but it was a timely reminder that we’re not nineteen forever, and to pull ourselves together… though we did it all again a few days later in beautiful surroundings, and I learned a wonderful new word which summed up the groom – and me, at times –very nicely.

Loquaciousness is a virtue.

It makes my job more enjoyable, builds relationships (and profiles online) but can sometimes get people into spots of bother if an injustice has been done; indeed, only last month two witches debated the issue in the presence of winged monkeys but thankfully, like in the film, the good one was victorious. Similarly, speech – written this time, as first person narratives – had a life changing  impact when I read two powerful (albeit very different) books which aren’t necessarily aimed at people like me but got me into the head of both a ten year old boy with Treacher-Collins syndrome, and a sixteen year old #BlackLivesMatter protestor who witnessed a terrible injustice.

Wonder, in particular, absorbed me completely and I love everything about it. Please, please read it and fall in love with it like I – and my classes – have.

The present

Back to the weddings, and it was nice to be around such love on the anniversary of our own special day, six years ago. We would celebrate with a very special meal and guest, the following week… but more of that later.

The first was in Shropshire and, on the way there, I saw my work from a previous life which suggested good omens for the happy couple.

Once there, we got ready and rushed to the idyllic venue where we mixed with fascinating people in a fairytale setting.

We felt very special and humbled to be part of such a wonderful event…

The boys were back… Not in town, but somewhere altogether more special and memorable.

After a beautiful ceremony in a most romantic landscape, the perfectly chosen reading, drink, dinner and dance it was back to normal life of trips to the beach, museums, attempting to rest…

First dips in the sea in the sunshine and singing in the rain.

We also spent time trying on our new trainers:

Watching Matilda:

Celebrating the genius and glory of Andres Iniesta Lujan:

Making trips to Tressell’s grave:

And just doing normal, everyday stuff, like measuring one’s wingspan at KSP.

The third and final wedding of the fortnight was the most unusual as it was Vegan and (thankfully) teetotal. I was the proudest (joint) best man that ever lived, though traditions went out of the window and for that, I was glad.

The day before, we arrived at this beautiful house on Tooting Common which has been the location for several photo, film and cookery book shoots and there were even ring tailed parakeets in the garden.

Just… wow.

The kitchen itself was immense, and a walk down the high street whetted the appetites although we stayed true to the theme of the weekend and loved the vegan diet.

It was so lovely to spend quality time with Jay, his lovely wife Helen, and various family and friends who were joining in the fun.

The ceremony itself was very special, at the King’s Road Chelsea Town Hall:

Then it was back to the house for the speeches…

I won’t relay the whole speech, but will offer the edited highlights to give you a flavour of what I spoke about. I nearly cried at two points, but overall am proud of my contribution.

I wore a Sgt Pepper’s t-shirt to remind everyone that ‘all you need is love’ and hinted at some of my memories with the groom: him lying on a car bonnet with trousers around his ankles after a house party, and unrelated near fights in Lancaster; sombreros in Durham; crazy wine bars in London; injured animals in Brisbane and him Upsetting a room full of people on my wedding day before two fantastic nights of the London art scene in 2012.

We’ve shared two memorable non stag dos, one to Barcelona for art galleries, beer and football and most recently a vegan meal at a posh restaurant which shows how we’ve grown up. I wrote recently about the trip – Coogan and Brydon, it’s all on youtube… Both occasions offered us chance to reflect on the monumental changes our lives have gone through since we first met on our first day of year 7, twenty seven years ago.

I say first day at school, actually, we had met before then; on a football pitch at the Reebok Soccer 6s competition when I scored past him for my wonderfully named team ‘Green Graffiti’ and then on Christ Church field when our primary schools met… That we became friends was incredible because Jay is so competitive that he normally falls out with people who beat him. I’ve seen him smash many a tennis racquet and gold club in anger; even the bananagram sets are not safe in his hands.

Foreign travels, the travails of love and work and modern life means that apart from a drunken meeting a couple of years ago, I’d not seen the family for about twenty years – and loved meeting the bride’s family, so welcoming and generous and having heard so much about them; further thanks and congratulations.

I thanked the bride for making my friends life so complete. The first time I met her we discussed Alan Partridge at length, and I was stunned by her niceness, so offered advice to the newlyweds on behalf of Poppy troll who declared the immortal words, “it’s not all cupcakes and rainbows but it’s real love”.

I decided I should read a poem and their meeting as vegans – plus the pragmatic, stripped down, homely and ‘real’ feel of the day- meant there was only one option.

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

a strange choice, some of you will think: Onions? Well, I was trying to be truthful; I was being honest about love and its everyday practicalities. I wanted to purvey the message that you have to work at it and, peeling back the layers, works out ok in the end.

Anyway, being a best man for Jay, I felt truly honoured… but don’t ever want to do it again. Still, at the end of my speech I tried to toast the bridesmaids, but even in that amazing kitchen, there was not a toaster big enough (I borrowed that joke from a wedding I attended sixteen years ago) so instead focused on the happy couple.

The evening was so relaxed – no alcohol, vegan vibes and just unforgettable moments of love, once again – that I wanted to savour every moment.

Reflecting:

We wish all the happy couples the very best for their lives together, and the theme of love carried on to the next morning, when we paid homage to the lovely Tracey Emin’s new neon at St. Pancras:

I really do.

The Future

The other – slightly less big – memorable moment of the past month was my getting an email off the club inviting me to attend one of the Dan Meis events. I actually missed my son’s first haircut for this, so was determined to extricate as much information as possible from it, hence the detail. I walked away with optimism and feeling free from the despondency which has filled my brain and heart for what feels like an eon and I’ll just recount what the aides memoirs seem to mean.

The architect wants the ground to “grow out of the dock” like – as I understood, a creature form the black lagoon but in a good way – and the initial images of inspiration were just perfect : the clock, the church we were in, all suggested he ‘gets it’. He mentioned brick and wood, the clear panels on the sides of the main stand and the GS and the need to use what seem like outdated materials in the new gaff. He discussed solar panels, the differences between North South and East West stadium orientations, and gave a great reference point of the Baltimore baseball stadium that mixes the old and new quite superbly.

I spoke to a friend at one of the weddings I referenced earlier, who writes for the Guardian Sport section in New York, about this and he was vociferous in his claim that said stadium is the inspiration for so many others across the States.

Meis then talked about how it wouldn’t be totally symmetrical, given the dimensions of the dock, and how a huge fan zone could be ‘the front door to the stadium’ with the iconic hydraulic tower being used as a pub or the team store, or choosing the option of incorporating a store inside the stadium like the unforgettable Barca store I’ve spent many a Euro in. This could also include a museum, he said, again referencing Camp Nou as a shining example of what could be achieved.

Overhead designs and pitch view restaurants brought things nearer to life, as did the reassurance that Meis has worked on Madison Square Garden and the Staples Center, both iconic venues, and he justified well the reasons for the capacity of both as the arguments for our own suggested maximum to be what it will be.

We even had workbooks to make notes in; I suggested a statue of the Holy Trinity and two weeks later, plans were announced. It’s nice to be excited for the future, albeit with an air or trepidation, and another recent visit to the Old Lady brought with it some lovely feelings and moments when we were treated like royalty. Meeting celebrities again… the story of my life.

Yes, at last I was able to attend a game and thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to savour being so close to the action, and my heroes. Really appreciating the kind gestures which accompanied it, we made the most of the chance and will aim to do it as much as possible before we move closer to the Mersey.

May offers some potential for pain, excitement and yet more changes. Whatever happens, we need to remember that we are us and not them and that the good will out when there comes soft rains. In the words of Jarvis Cocker:

“Brothers, sisters, can’t you see?
The future’s owned by you and me
There won’t be fighting in the street
They think they’ve got us beat, but revenge is going to be so sweet, oh-oh-oh”

If all else fails, I’ve got Marine (even though we lost the cup final 0-4) and anyway, I’ve started sponsoring a local under 17s team…

Black Mirror called it so right.

A lot of what the writers of the excellent series predicted has come true, particularly the ideas about technology and relationships – trying to ‘block’ people in real life, getting rated on your interactions – although some might say Ofsted were actually pre-emptive of Messrs Brooker and Co, years ago.

Of course, I can’t talk about Ofsted on social media, so I won’t say much more, other than that this month there have been some real highs in the day job and a couple of lows – plus ca change, some might say – but, as a friend so eloquently put recently, “I know you say you get fed up but it sounds genuinely rewarding” and yes, it really is.

Still, numbers and world book day and the power of reading aside, we had lots to do this month, from ‘non-stag’ dos to class worship, birthday parties to special evenings out based on The Trip; those three wonderful series featuring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon which, over time, has become less about the food and more the narrative on the apparent personae the comedians / actors have taken on.

What a strange start to your monthly updates, you’re thinking. Well, here is where it all comes together, quite serendipitously.

Shortly after announcing his betrothal, my oldest friend, best man and all round good egg chaser decided that he was keen to re- enact the travels of those two for our own special evening to ‘bury his life as a boy’.
Naturally, we would record the event and I would write a review of the experience, giving it a rating, just as Ofsted themselves do. It matters a lot to the establishment – or teacher – and to those reading the review.

Going back half a dozen years, my own stag do had involved early morning beers in a Barcelona apartment and some art before feasting on a match at Camp Nou. I drank a lot, paid a lot for the privilege and and cheered out loud when I saw that the greatest footballer of my lifetime would be playing. That he – and another of the heroes of my era – both scored, made it all the more memorable.

This all meant that the pressure was on when I was given the task of finding somewhere suitable which did good vegan food and could accommodate two thirty somethings on a mutually agreeable weekend evening… Something as good as Messi and Iniesta would have to be pretty spectacular, that was for sure.

Thankfully, we found it.

As luck would have it, another friend called Jay was on a stag do in town the same day, and I threatened to wear the Everton shirt synonymous with the start of my friendship with Jay from the early nineties.

Obviously I didn’t, and will save it for my fortieth… so instead we whetted our appetite for the haute cuisine ahead with some rugby, debauchery and beer – non alcoholic for the non-drinker – and despite some hairy moments involving a golf club, getting called Gok Wan and ‘the fisherman from outside the Blue Star Chippy’, a good afternoon was had by all before we arrived at our destination.

Living so far apart, we don’t get much opportunity to chat deeply and meaningfully so we made the most of the chance to discuss marriage and parenthood. This allowed getting the serious stuff out of the way before we could concentrate on the important stuff: the menu d’excellence at The Art School Restaurant, Liverpool.

Now, I struck lucky with the internet trawling when I realised this fine dining establishment had such a good reputation for Vegan food and immediately booked in. Having been there once before with my wife, I knew it would be special, and had been looking forward to the meal for ages. Now we had arrived, we could relax, discuss memories of Jay’s life as a boy and reflect on the monumental changes our lives have gone through since we first met on our first day of year 7, twenty seven years ago.

Actually, we had met before then; on a football pitch at the Reebok Soccer 6s competition when I scored past Jay for my wonderfully named team ‘Green Graffiti’ and then on Christ Church field when our primary schools met… as we grew up, football played some part in our friendship but was overtaken by art, drinking, university, travels, the travails of love and work and modern life and not even Antipodean adventures affected our bond.

I remember house parties and near fights in Lancaster; sombreros in Durham; wine bars in London; injured animals in Brisbane and Big Dunc on my wedding day before two nights of the London art scene in 2012.

And lots more besides.

But this was again our time, our time surrounded by people on dates, a special occasion between two (pretty much lifelong) friends and even if people might have thought we too were on a date, I wanted us to make the most of it; we did. The service was truly wonderful, we talked at length about grown up stuff and then got to speak at length with the proprietor of this fantastic place.

Before we go into specific detail, it would be remiss of me to mention that I attended art school in Liverpool – not the same building, although friends frequented there and I think I attended a couple of shows at least – but the creative streak in us made it a serendipitous bonus that we should be spending our last night with him as a single man, in such apt surroundings.

Yes, that’s what I have in common with John Lennon, Stu Sutcliffe, David Gray – and, if false rumour were to be believed, Adolf Hitler – but more importantly, it’s the thousands of happy customers who must have been through the doors of Paul ‘Porky’ Askew’s establishment who matter more, given its recent reincarnation as a destination of fine dining.

I’ve been reading lots of Grace Dent recently and although I don’t like her very much – it’s not a Lancastrian / Cumbrian thing, I just don’t like the cut of her jib – I do admire her writing, and I think she would approve of The Art School because it’s friendly formal with fantastic taste.

Those values shone through from the first moment we arrived. Jay being vegan, they catered perfectly for him, and I struggled to decide what I wanted but was more bothered about the wine pairing, which thankfully the sommeliers made easier by pairing perfectly and then offering a panacean escape opportunity of a course, which I’m seriously considering as a way out.

Still, we need to at least explain the food if this is a restaurant review, and despite it being top notch in every way, I feel I need to justify the price tag with enough detail to show quite why it was the equal of 603-goals-and-counting Messi et al.

The amuses-bouches were delightful, with champagne to boot, then a starter of pigeon and foie gras which – as a Morrissey devotee, I shouldn’t enjoy, but do – was simply lovely. It was accompanied by a delightful New Zealand wine called Pansy.

Then, after serious deliberation, I opted for the duck, and I’m glad I did because the pinkest slab of bird arrived and my guilt for my dining partner dissipated with the melting heart I felt after seeing the beautiful presentation of my main. Again, the wine matching was perfect: a Croatian red by the name of Matosevic, which sounds a bit like a football player too.

Alas, the dessert: a refreshing option to cleanse the palate after all this decadence and the Sicilian lemon and orange tart transported me to one of the few places in Europe I’m still desperate to visit. The meringue was a particular standout, and ended the evening perfectly. It came with a wondrous wine: Txakoli, from the Basque region I fell in love with a couple of years ago.

The bill came and we played the Henry Kelly guessing game so loved by Messrs Brydon and Coogan on the show. At this point, I realised that Jay had been recording the whole conversation for posterity! I must have spoken some drivel over the evening, and would love the chance to listen again to the three hours we spent at that table. Of course – as the gents always do on the dating programmes – I paid. After such an incredible evening, however, the price was unimportant.

I’d been saving up for it, and Jay deserved it, especially after all he has done for us.

There was an unfortunate incident involving my taking a selfie with an asleep diner on the next table, mind:

There was still time to discuss the restaurant’s sommelier course with our servers – who made excellent choices, I hasten to add – and I was encouraged to enquire about their sommelier course.

I have to say, I’m seriously considering it.

I also purchased the incredibly attractive Onwards and Upwards book by chef, Paul Askew. I’ve admired his approach for years, and food on a couple of occasions, and was so pleased to see him in the kitchen. I was elated when he signed the book with a lovely, heartfelt message. I was overjoyed when he appeared at our table, and shook my hand for what felt like an eternity whilst I explained our strange situation.

I thanked and congratulated him for what he has thus far achieved in the city; reading the book since has given me an even greater insight. He’s a great guy, it’s a great place and I urge anyone with an appetite and love of fine dining to attend.

Vegan or not…

It was the perfect destination for the equivalent of a night at the Nou Camp, too, with Askew the Messi, pulling the strings from the pass, and our sommelier the Iniesta (the ‘Solutions’ girl) with the whole team giving us two excitable young men – embarking upon a new chapter in our lives with exuberance and enjoyment – another, very different, experience we will never forget.

Alas, we missed the last train home and the kids were up at 6am the next day, but it didn’t matter.

It was Mes que un Meal – Mes que un Stag – and we wish Jay, and all the grooms about to begin married life, all the very best.

Please don’t worry: this is largely positive, but we start with a minor (Mancunian) moan.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: “I’ve been away, I’ve been working. But now I’m back and I need to know that you’re still there… I need to know that you still care…”

Those lyrics by Mr Fray ring true again, as nearly the first two months of the year have flown by without so much as a word on this anachronistic opportunity for my splenetic ramblings on life as we know it.

So, “life’s what happens when you’re busy making lesson plans,” John Lennon didn’t say, but it’s been all go in the present author’s household as January started the year off fine and February (so far) has been all about my little Valentines; both have passed without much event other than hard work, illness, life changes for some and good news for others.

Chipped front teeth, black charcoal toothpaste, experimenting with the Christmas gifts cookbooks when time allowed and fun times at pantomimes and parties…

 

Still, it was Valentine’s Day last week and I was reminded once again that the course of true love never did run smooth. We had a romantic interlude at our wedding venue which was much needed and very lovely… then, yes, I lost my wedding ring for a short period of time – daughter had hidden it in her room for a ‘prank’ – but my thinking was more about the writer of that statement, than its proof. Yes, Old Billy Wigglesword first coined the phrase about love and included it in one of his funnier, crazier plays in 1595.

A play which I think was actually about Everton’s start to 2018.

OK, so a Shakespearean farce might seem a strange analogy for my nod to this most frustrating of seasons, but the parallels are there for all to see. We’ve even got a coach who shares his name with the Bard. The plot of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is perfectly mirrored by what is happening on the pitch this year: I kind of imagine Bill and Farhad as Theseus and Hipployta, an about-to-be-married couple who get a visit from a troubled man with a complaint. £50 million later, and a few squad players lighter, everything eventually gets resolved, to a point. Those players who went out on loan must have been happy to go, such was the disappointment at the displays at Wembley and the Emirates this past month, which, mixed in with the ‘highs’ of somewhat fortunate victories and then a dull draw, perfectly encapsulated the ‘play within a play’ of this maddening season.

I won’t go on to say who plays Nick Bottom, he of the ass’s head, because his lover looks more like my wife which raised alarm bells when I happened upon this illustration whilst recently teaching the story. All we need to know is that it all works out in the end and if it doesn’t, we are encouraged to just think it was all a dream by mischievous fairy Puck (aka Robin Goodfellow) in the closing speech:

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended:

That you have but slumber’d here,

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle team, sorry theme,

No more yielding but a dream.

In the midst of all this disappointment on the pitch, which I’d hoped had all been a nightmare, I suppose an FA Cup tie (on the anniversary of the best one ever, won by Dan Gosling in extra time, I was there and lost my voice in the 118^th minute maelstrom) featuring Everton Ladies v Bristol City is a good analogy of the fight between Hermia and Helena in the performance this article is loosely based on but in reality, it felt more like a turning point for my waning support.

That there were 712 of us at the College Road Marine Travel Arena, is a sign I wasn’t alone, and several fellow fans have expressed their enjoyment of the event. Even Jesse Lingaard was there, with a ridiculous hood.

I’ve never pushed football with B; if anything, it’s used as a threat in our house following misbehaviour (some would say Everton is punishment for us all) and I’ve taken her to the free second half of Marine games when she was asleep, but for the first time she was aware of what we were doing and it was ‘our thing’. It was a proud moment to have my little girl sat on the barrier, shouting, “COME ON, EVERTON!” at the top of her voice and asking questions about what the girls were doing.

There were some patronising responses, sexist almost, who found it hilarious the game was against who it was against. All very hilarious if you’re carrying on in the 1960s but too smutty and inappropriate for me anyway, in 2018.

In this year of us men apologising, significant award ceremony stances and the very worthy #metoo campaign, in which I’m really enjoying reading B the various (and beautifully illustrated) Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls, I’m hopeful that the women’s game gets more credit and respect, too. It’s been noticeable to see the likes of Steph Houghton, Sue Smith and Rachel Finnis Brown getting more air time as pundits in the studio or presenting recently, whilst the likes of Toni Duggan have been a guest on Soccer AM (which itself has improved since losing a female presenter and ditching those terrible bits every week when a teenage girl would come on in a kit, then ‘Tubes’ would rip off his shirt) and every week there seems to be a stronger female presence as commentators on MOTD or guest journalists on the radio.

Maybe that can be a career opportunity for B, too? Living vicariously through my dreams.

It was good to see a proper football match where everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, with no trouble, plus it didn’t cost anything. Obviously I’m sure it’s not always like that but it was a perfect introduction to what I hope will be a lifelong love affair with Everton – at least the ladies – for my little girl.

Of course, the men’s team did at least get back to winning ways the following week and things looked a bit brighter, I suppose, for a short while anyway. The good news is that the wonderful craziness of SSC Napoli continues apace, whilst the World Cup ever nears…. But football nowadays is such a mess, a mash up of mad situations and comedy characters (with VAR being thrown into the mix) that we can’t help but wonder if the overpaid clowns are spoiling the games we love.

‘Twas ever thus: talking of circuses, we took the kids there last week, too.

One afternoon a year – or more, if you were lucky enough that the circus was coming to town – I’d marvel at the couple of hours spent in the ‘big top’ and the great afternoon’s entertainment which brought back memories of Blackpool Tower and the Mexican wolf boys.

What?

You don’t remember them?

Nowadays, circuses have even more sinister connotations, for example Papa Lazarou (really loved the League of Gentlemen reboot and the rest of the Inside No 9 series) or the classic Freaks, directed by Todd Browning. Obviously, in the circus, the animals are gone, and I’d argue some of the mystique with them, but as Morrissey embarks upon a new British tour which I’m sad to miss for pragmatic reasons, the animal charities have my support on this one. The lions and tigers, elephants and monkeys were great as a kid, but now I understand the conditions they might have faced, it’s for the best that they’re not involved for my kids today.

That doesn’t stop me marvelling at the idea of elephants marching through a city, though, as happened regularly when circuses arrived:

This is actually one of the most romantic films ever made, although its messages are mixed. I love it because of it pragmatism, its reality in the confusion and anti-climax that many relationships endure.

WATCH IT.

A more romantic notion is presented here:

Like I said, films are a tough watch. There’s loads at the cinema I fancy: Downsizing, Black Panther, Three Billboards…  although I won’t get there for a while. Having kids is a million times better than being able to get to watch films, of course, but it’s something they don’t tell you at ante-natal class and we’ve now even de-registered Sky Cinema due to the absence of chances to sit down and watch a film.

Instead, we focus on TV: we’re thoroughly enjoying The End of the F***ing World (one of the best and most unusual things I’ve seen for a while, a mixture of Submarine and True Romance which I’d wholeheartedly recommend) and Moving On – my idea for a story was strong, I thought, but can see why this year’s offerings were better, and will endeavour to get on Pointless instead – meanwhile, I’m slowly ploughing through the box sets of Gomorrah and Black Mirror, both excellent so far too, although all those books don’t mark themselves… and most of my screen time is currently spent on CBeebies, Little Baby Bum or when time allows, the Vaccines on repeat or said jokey football (often on a dodgy stream)

Thankfully, back on the pitch, whatever happens come May, things will be resolved one way or another. In the Shakespearean play I referenced earlier, of course, everyone lives happily ever after, with the couples married off conveniently and nobody cares about who went with who and who said what.

Talking of lonely hearts and circuses… I got a new Beatles t-shirt this month, too.

 

And talking of The Beatles…

All you need is love (and marriage, love and marriage) and we talk of marriage as we now think repeatedly of weddings – not just ours, six years ago, but also those of the couples coming up who are sharing our historical nerves and worries and whom, we hope, enjoy their day as much as we did. Four in a fortnight, around the time we remember six years of being betrothed… to prepare, we had fun in town, looking for dresses and suits, in between buying LOL Surprise dolls and visiting the excellent Tom Wood exhibition at the Open Eye Gallery.

The day also involved me trying on suits, looked exactly like a gurning-on-stage Moz – more of which coming up shortly.

Yes, in half term we also returned to the Vincent to celebrate our anniversary, and a great time was had by all. Whilst in Sunny Southport, we also loved the exhibition at The Atkinson which featured prints from a selection of Pop artists – including classic Rauschenbergs and Warhols – and some paintings and sculptures of animals, including domestic pets, reminding me that Morrissey is currently on a tour of the UK and I’m but well jel of certain people I know who are there tonight to hear him sing your life in Leeds.

Whilst I’m disappointed, I just can’t be there this time around for obvious reasons, and I send all my love.

Love, then – it’s all about love. Love is a many splendoured thing… love lifts us up where we belong… all you need is love. It sounds very like lines from Moulin Rouge, I know, but whatever madness is going on in your life… love is all you need.

Especially when you get great news and then the next morning, your son says his name for the first time.

This is what it’s all about. Real love.

 

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