I love mcr.


(Picture by @DickVincentIllustration)

There are bees- the symbol of Manchester- swarming all over my social media feeds. Beneath the horror and the shock they are sending out an insistent buzz: how dare they do this to our city?

Alongside the sadness, there is defiance and pride, and a massive up yours to those who would seek to wound this place we love.


There isn’t a single word I could type that would make sense of the brutality of last night’s attacks or the loss of lives. There isn’t any point in me writing about how this terrible incident makes me feel. I am safe, and my family is safe. It isn’t about me.

But it is about my city. And there is a love letter to my city burning at my fingertips tonight. So let’s talk about our city for a moment.

Manchester is iconic. We had the first intercity railway. The Co-Operative movement started here. It was the birthplace of the motherfucking industrial revolution.

So it’s no wonder that Manchester has swagger- just like the indie boys in their pop-collared parkas that it is so good at producing. It is an upstart, it makes no apologies- the Beetham tower rising like a giant middle finger from Manchester’s mishmash of a skyline, where industrial warehouses and grand Victorian civic buildings and shiny office blocks jostle against one another.

Manchester’s reputation is way bigger than its size. You can go anywhere in the world, and when people ask where you are from, their faces light up in recognition. Manchester United, people nod. Oasis, they say. Coronation Street. I’ve always felt a shiver of pride at that recognition. This city pours out talent and creativity: sport, music, theatre, art, television, film. It is famous for so much more than this awful business, or the IRA attack in 1996, or the bombs of the Blitz in World War Two.

Manchester is as diverse as it’s possible for a city to be. People come from all over the world to study and work and live here. If you sit on a bus and close your eyes, you hear a patchwork of languages and accents woven in with the distinctive, flat Manc vowels. I went to school in the middle of the city, with kids of all colours and backgrounds, and it opened my eyes.

And Manchester knows how to go out. When Manchester goes out, it goes Out out. When you’re young, like many of the victims last night, going out in Manchester shapes you.

Like the kids who were there last night, I tasted freedom for the first time as a teenager at big music gigs. I screamed along to East 17 at G-Mex (as it was called then); I bounced  to Blur, and Supergrass; I saw  Jamiroquai and Justin Timberlake at the same arena that was targeted last night. I didn’t realise then how lucky I was to be able to jump on the bus to see the music I loved, when so many have to travel from far afield.

At Eid, the Muslim boys from my sixth form college would join the parade of cars cruising slowly down the Curry Mile in Rusholme, honking their horns and blasting out music as people celebrated in their best, most colourful clothes- and I watched through the window from a high stool in an ice cream parlour, with the most delicious milkshake in the world in my hand, and the pop of fireworks in the background.

The day my mum was diagnosed with cancer, I watched Manchester United win the treble in a packed city centre pub, and joined the crowds swinging around lamp-posts and singing tunelessly on the streets afterwards. I’m afraid I was a complete glory hunter (I don’t know a thing about football now and I didn’t, really, then), but the streets were filled with glory that night.

In the summer of 1999, I poured pints at a bar on Canal Street, and discovered a world where boys casually held hands with boys on cobbles polished by thousands of feet, and house beats echoed against the black water of the canal in the middle of the night.

I went clubbing at Sankey’s and Fifth Ave, and I snogged university freshers at the Flea & Firkin, and I felt like the world was at my feet.

Manchester is a big city with the feel of a village, and even though you might get mugged or your wallet pinched from your bag in a club, it felt like a great place, a safe place, to be young and to grow up. I hope that it still is.

I don’t get to go Out out much these days, now that I am old, and a mum. But I can take my kids to amazing museums where they can see a giant spider crab, and the steam engines that powered the industrial revolution. When we can get a babysitter, their dad and I can escape for an evening and walk for five minutes to streets lined with restaurants and bars. We can eat tapas, jerk chicken or teppanyaki, and feel like we’re having a mini break even if we have to be home by 10pm.

How lucky I am to live here, in this exciting and international city. Not just to live here- to have this city in my blood. A city where big stars play giant concerts that you can hear from your bed miles away in the suburbs, when your window is open on a summer night. A city which may get scrappy, but where dozens of communities live alongside each other- where, last night, they gave each other taxi rides and beds for the night, and this morning queued together to give blood until the blood banks had to turn them away, and this evening stood in solidarity. It is a city where you can get close to your heroes. A city where trains and planes and trams and cars mean that there is never silence, but where you can find green spaces and parks that let you forget the urban sprawl around you, even if you are, more often that not, being rained on throughout.

This city is far from perfect. There is crime, and grime, and poverty, and the city centre at 3am can be a portrait of the dark side of going Out out. Manchester is chippy, and flawed, but it is beautiful, and it is ours.

The real juggle of the working mum…

Man who

(Picture pinched from hilarious Facebook/Twitter @manwhohasitall– which I insist you follow immediately, if you do not already).


I work part time- I’m letting my colleagues down!

 I work full time- I’m letting my family down!

 I work from home- I don’t pay my kids enough attention when I’m with them!

 I work in an office- I’m never with them!

 I’ve lost my touch! I’m crap! I’m failing at both things!

 Welcome to the cacophony of inner voices that haunts the mind of the mother who works, like a malevolent chorus in a very bad musical about maternal guilt.

We’re told by certain newspapers, and the internet at large, that we’re letting both our employers and/or our children down, with such exhausting frequency that it amplifies our own self-doubt to the point where we think that we were stupid to ever think we could ‘have it all’. (And we’re not trying to have it all, are we? We’re trying to go to work, and have kids- something that dads have been allowed to do for, oh, ages).

We feel like we’re not doing well enough at our jobs, and we’re not doing well enough at mumming.

But, in the juggle of working and parenting, I don’t think it’s the actual work or parenting that suffers.

Of course not every mum who works is great at their job. Because- here’s a secret- we are actually people, as well as Working Mums. Some people are good at their jobs, some people are crap, and some are in the middle. And not every working parent is a good parent, either- because, newsflash, not all people are good at being parents.

But, among the women I know- full time, part time, work from home or frequent flyer- the evidence I see in both their successes at work, and the happy faces of their kids, is that those who devote their lives and column inches to tearing down working women who also have families can insert their bullshit opinions back where they came from, thank you kindly.

No, for me the real juggle of being a working parent- the ball that most often, in reality, gets dropped- is myself.

We keep the plates (or perhaps that should be the fidget-spinners) of family and work turning, but it’s a bloody herculean effort to keep ourselves together in the middle of it.

This blog post started to brew when I was half-running for the tram on my way to a work function the other night. It started at 7pm- fine if you can go straight from the office to the do, not fine if you have to finish work, then go home for the pick-up-teatime-bedtime shift in between. I knew that, when I arrived at the event, my colleagues would see a normal person, ready for some wholesome team building fun and only slightly late.

What my colleagues wouldn’t see is that I had kiwi juice smeared in with my touche éclat, because my daughter suddenly wanted pudding after all when I was in the middle of putting on make-up- a task for which I had allotted precisely seven minutes.

They wouldn’t have heard me, in the two minutes I had allocated to have a wee and mask the smell of mounting panic with a squirt of deodorant, trying to explain what periods are to a four year old boy, because obvs the wee and the armpit-spritz were not in private.

They wouldn’t know that my fellow parent and I had seen each other for around thirty seconds, and exchanged probably less than twenty words, most of which were ‘I’ve given them their tea, he needs a poo, have a good time bye.’

And they wouldn’t have heard the strangled yells emanating from the bathroom, because somebody had the toy lifeboat that it was definitely somebody else’s turn to have, as I rather gratefully shut the front door behind me.

All of this is the stuff of family life, and it’s fine and good. But sometimes it’s hard to come out of it all on the other side- the work side- looking like a fully functioning, washed and composed human being.

And sometimes, the cracks show.

It’s the little things- like my mascara, the last, but arguably most crucial, item of make up. More often than not, time runs out in the morning, and I have to drop my tools like a Crystal Maze contestant abandoning a challenge (Come out! Come out!), and go to work with naked lashes.

If I’m lucky, I’ll remember to put it on in the lift at work while someone (who has clearly never had to decant Weetabix into a different bowl because it was THE WRONG BOWL I WANT THE BLACK BOWL DADDY GIVES ME THE BLACK BOWL at 6.57am) gives me the side eye. If I’m lucky, I won’t go through the whole day looking like a hungover mole because I forget to put it on at all. If I’m lucky, I won’t stab myself in the eye with the wand but not have time to sort it out, and arrive in the office with a streak of black down my face, which I will forget to wipe off, because of the ten thousand things in my brain.

Then there was the time (two times, actually), when I wore mismatching shoes. The first time, it was one black high-heeled boot and one brown low-heeled boot. The second time, tragically, it was one black knee high boot and one silver trainer.

And there’s the stuff that comes out of your handbag. Nobody warns you about this before you have kids. The other day, I started a meeting by pulling a pen out of my bag- swiftly followed by a collection of acorns and dried leaves that have been there since last autumn. A work friend once delivered a cutting remark in the office, before turning on her heel, dropping her handbag and watching in horror as a pair of her daughter’s underpants fell out.

The potential for indignity never ends. I know one parent (a Working Dad!) who spent the duration of a meeting wondering what the smell of poo was… until he looked down at his sleeve.

All of this doesn’t (repeat doesn’t) make us any worse at our jobs, but it can leave us feeling pretty frazzled, pretty much all of the time.

I don’t expect or deserve any sympathy and/or congratulations for any of this. As my work friend said the other day, and made me snort my latte out of my nose: we are living in a giant pit of our own making. Or to couch it in more social media-friendly terms: this was our choice, and we wouldn’t change it. (#soblessed).

No, I’m not here for head pats. I’m hear to say this…

To the mum who realises half way through a meeting that she has a My Little Pony sticker on each boob, and has to hastily rearrange her arms to cover them…

To the woman holding an important phone call from her kitchen table while making thumbs-up gestures and mouthing ‘FIREMAN SAM!’ with a manic grin, at a toddler who has bollocked on all bloody day about watching Fireman Sam, until the moment when Mummy has to make a phone call and suddenly Fireman Sam is the worst…

To all of us:

Stop feeling like you’re letting people down- your boss, your kids- when in reality the only person you should be looking after better is yourself. Stop beating yourself up and repeat after me: we got this.

We got this. Our shoes may not match and our mascara may be smeared above our eyebrows, and breadstick crumbs might spray from our handbags when we open them. But our kids are OK. Our work is good. And we got this.

Something Terrible Is About To Happen

sittin on a rock

You can barely scroll a screen at the moment without encountering mental health awareness- from Prince Harry, to the London Marathon, to Prince Harry at the London Marathon, to Mental Health Awareness Week (this week) and BBC documentaries.

It’s fantastic. It’s genuinely breaking down the stigma of mental illness. Many words about it have been written, by people with more experience than me, and incredibly moving personal stories.

But I do think it’s worth adding more voices to the chorus of ‘me too’ (is there any phrase in the English language more heartening?). So, here goes…

I cherish my own mental health. I prize it more dearly than any possession. I was, once upon a time, in a deep dark place, with diagnosed depression and (I now feel pretty sure) undiagnosed OCD. Not the fictional ‘likes to have a wipe around’ type of OCD, but the terrifying ‘these intrusive thoughts will destroy me’ sort. I was sucked under, not for long, but long enough to feel l was losing my breath. Back then, nobody really spoke about it. Maybe now, with all the coverage there is and all the people bravely speaking up, I’d know that I wasn’t a complete freak, as well as really sad and scared.

With professional help and personal support, I fought my way out. And I haven’t fallen back in for at least fifteen years. Even after my sister died, even after having two babies (all of which could have been big triggers) I have stayed on solid ground, and I could cry with relief just thinking about it.

Peace of mind was all I craved in those difficult times, and now, I think I have it, as a baseline at least. I’m actually happy. It’s amazing! Thank you, NHS!

But. But. I’ve been wondering whether, while we are all becoming more aware of mental health crises and mental illness, are we still lacking awareness about being properly, mentally well? Because I’m not 100% sure, despite the beautiful absence of illness I enjoy, that I am completely mentally well.

The title of this blog post will be, I only half-joke, the name of my memoirs. “Something terrible is about to happen” is a very familiar feeling for me. It’s understandable, you might think. Something terrible did happen. It happened suddenly, and shockingly, and the newspaper headlines you shudder at became my life.

But here’s the truth. I always felt that something terrible was about to happen, even before Helen died. And now that I have children, it’s ever-present.

I know that becoming a parent ushers The Fear into our lives, for all of us. The horrible lurking dread that you could lose your precious child/ren, that never really goes away and never will. That’s unavoidable- even my partner G, who is so level headed you balance a mug of tea on his bonce, feels The Fear. If they sleep in too late in the morning, we both hold our breath as go into their rooms.

But I’m not sure that the level at which I experience The Fear is normal. Say one of them is running around and around a tree; each time they disappear behind the tree, panic rises. I know they are behind the tree. There is nowhere they could disappear to. But I panic for the two seconds it takes for them to pop back into vision.

Or at the soft play centre. My eyes are fixed so firmly on the exit, just in case some imaginary baddie tries to abduct my children, that I can’t properly hold a conversation with the friends I came with.

Once, my daughter and her friends virtually pissed themselves laughing on the way home from school, imagining how I would react if they ran off round the corner. ‘Other mummies would be fine, but you’d be like AAAAARGH!’, they LOL-ed.

When people say ‘you have to let children take risks’ I want to bellow ‘OH NO YOU FUCKING DON’T!’

I tell myself that it is because I love my kids so much. But then, other parents love their children just as much. And they can take their eyes off them for two seconds.

And then there’s the generalised anxiety I often feel on a day-to-day basis. About work (did I screw up? Will somebody die because of it?), about friendships (do they hate me?), about whether I am a complete twat (does everyone, in fact, hate me?). Sometimes it’s a physical feeling, like I am constantly about to hiccup.

All of this, and yet I am actually happy. This anxiety is so much a part of me, that I wonder if it’s just my personality. Maybe some of us are just sensitive. Or maybe, just perhaps, it’s something I should be addressing.

Maybe I am still, in fact, mad. If only slightly mad.

But life is so busy, and ironically, it becomes one more thing to worry about. And I don’t have time, what with everything else,to worry about that, much less to do anything about it. But maybe that should change.

I applaud mental health awareness. Perhaps, for many of us, that should also mean a little more self-awareness, to help us become truly well.

I’m getting there. I think I’ll get there. If nothing terrible happens before I do.

Don’t Pity The Second Child



First children are lucky, we say. They are pampered and adored, and the focus of everyone’s attention, at least until a baby sibling rocks up. Slices of cucumber and blanched courgette are laid before them in the name of baby led weaning, and if this goes down like a sack of sick, organic purees are lovingly prepared and frozen in individual tubs. Name tags are sewn with care into pristine new school uniform, three months before they start school.

“Poor second child,” I’ve heard many parents joke, guiltily, as their younger child helps themselves to chocolate digestives from the shopping bag stuffed into the buggy with them (always the bottom seat of the double buggy, where they can’t really see out) during the school run. “Poor neglected second child”.

Baby led weaning is a given for second children, because you don’t have time to puree, so their first food is a giant slab of lasagne stolen from your plate and jammed into their gob. If they’re lucky, parents remember to cross out their older sibling’s name in the name tag of their hand-me-down school uniform, before scrawling the younger one’s name in a felt tip pen nicked from the craft box on the washcare label.

Our youngest learned to settle himself for his morning nap in his pram- not through any conscious sleep-training, but because I just had to let him cry in the porch while I stuffed a three-year-old’s feet into shoes, and her arms into her coat, and wrangled her and her iron will out of the house for nursery school.

Poor second child, we joke. And yet I’ve heard as many parents marvel at how much easier their second child is, how much less demanding and difficult a baby, how much more compliant a toddler and child.

But I think it’s easier to be easier when you are a second child. I speak from experience. I was a nauseatingly well-behaved child- and that’s largely because I watched my big brother pushing boundaries and getting told off, and decided that it wasn’t for me. (I still don’t get why children misbehave- I mean why would you do that? Why would you make people shout at you? But that’s the second child in me talking…).

So maybe it’s not that first children are more difficult. Maybe it’s just that, just like we have to learn from scratch how to be parents, the eldest has to learn from scratch what oils the wheels of family life, and what makes them fall off in a flurry of sparks and screeching. The first kid and the parents learn together, and it involves trial and error. All while the second child watches placidly, taking it all in and learning how to sidestep the drama. Poor second child? Bollocks to that. Don’t feel sorry for us second children- we’ve got it sussed.

And maybe second babies aren’t really less demanding. Maybe it’s just that, for parents, being presented with these demands isn’t like being thrown from a world where you have freedom and autonomy and can take a shower, onto a different planet where a tiny dictator who can only scream and not speak, and whose needs must be deciphered through a series of secret codes and signs, is in charge; and where you can never, ever sleep. It’s just life as you already knew it.

By the time you get to your second, you’re prepared. Sure, every child is different and presents new challenges. Our big one never clung to my legs or limpet-like to my body when I dropped her off at her childminder’s house, so I learned how to deal with that for the first time with our little one.

But generally, most things he can pull out of the bag, we’ve already dealt with. So instead of flying into a panic with an internal scream of WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS? at some new phase, we just think, ‘oh this again’, and possibly make a better fist of it. Or at least, chill the f out a little more. That’s why, when our youngest wouldn’t sleep as a baby, we didn’t spend knackering nights shush-patting in the dark- we just bundled him into our bed so we could all get some shut-eye, and woke up to his slobbery, smiling little dough face each morning, and generally felt more relaxed.

But the first child has to do everything, well, first- and I don’t think that’s an easy role to play. So here’s to the first children. The pushers of boundaries, the venturers, the ones who test our limits and pave the way. The ones who teach us how to be mums and dads.

And to my eldest,- my feisty, fierce, funny first. Thank you for bearing with us, and sorry for the times we’ve messed up. It’s a trip, learning how to be parents with you (still learning, seven years in), as you learn how to just be. There’s nobody I’d rather get it right and wrong with.