Sunny Bank Holiday Weekend

We had beautiful weather for the holiday weekend. But although we spent most of it out in the open, I started on Friday by taking G to the National Football Museum at the Urbis. She's a little bit bigger than the last time I took her there, back when the impressive building in the middle of Manchester was still a museum of popular culture. Now that she's playing football herself, I thought it might be fun to take her for a look around the new collections.

The picture shows her sitting on some seats from the old Wembley, although the exhibit which really took her interest was the cabinet full of huge silver trophies. The old Football League Championship trophy was in the middle, but it was the even bigger, shinier and gaudier examples dotted around, awarded for various long-forgotten minor tournaments, which she kept pointing to. When she comes back from football, or ballet, or whatever, with her first little medal, I'm sure it's going to be kept extremely shiny.

There was a food festival at Salford Quays on Saturday. We went along, and Mrs J raided the stall selling macarons. As confections go these have always confused me, mainly because I was brought up in Scotland where we have macaroons instead. Also confusingly, G wanted to eat the blue one. And so she had a blue tongue for the rest of the afternoon, as did I, after I helped finish it off when she didn't want any more:

Cake has been a regular theme of the time I've spent with G over the years. There was a lot around on Sunday afternoon at an event called G Festival 2013, held in Swinton as a charity fundraiser after a girl from the local area who died three years ago. After having lots of fun blowing bubbles and on the bouncy castle, we went to the cake stall and found an appropriate one for G. Although she doesn't much like icing, so I had to have the actual bit with the G on it:

Monday was the warmest day of the weekend, and just as well as we went to the East Lancashire Railway in Bury for another day out with Thomas the Tank Engine. The success of our last visit to one of these events in Llangollen in February was only slightly dampened by the fact it chucked it down all day, so it was particularly good to have a day of train-based fun without having to scurry around under cover all the time. G even had a dress on, and got to meet the big guy himself:

She was less keen on the Fat Controller ("but I'm very shy" she said, intently), and needed a good bit of prodding before finally agreeing to sit next to him. Less prodding was needed to get her to toot Thomas's whistle. She talked about this moment all the way home. This would have been extremely tedious, but we only live a quarter of an hour away. Which was just as well.

The Real Percy

They were running steam train rides at the Museum of Science and Industry over Christmas, and we decided to take G along for a go on one. The trains were only going a short way, along the track in the old goods yard that is now the museum, through the former Liverpool Road station platform, then backing down another bit of track, before retracing the route to the start. But that was more than enough to get G very excited.

Our engine was green, and G quickly assumed this was the real-life Percy. It's Percy who, according to the song now permanently seared into my brain, always brings the mail on time in Thomas The Tank Engine.

"Look! Percy's going!" she said as the engine moved off and the steam poured out all around us, with the sort of excitement little girls usually save for fairy princesses, or One Direction. I may have to give in to Mrs J's suggestion that we start taking her to dance classes, if only to balance things out a bit.

Accent

I suppose it had to happen. But the speed at which G has gone from a fairly generic toddler-type voice to a broad Manchester accent has taken me a bit by surprise.

At her old nursery, she picked up a few words with a bit of an Oldham sound, which she occasionally dropped in ("mun-keh" was a particular favourite of mine). But those seemed to have faded away since we moved to our new place and she started at a new nursery in town.

That was until last week. One day, I noticed G had started talking like a Manc. It seemed to come on almost overnight, but it was definitely there. A sort of verbal tic in which she goes up-then-down during a sentence, then up again at the very end. Not just as a one-off though, this is now how she says every single sentence. As you can imagine, it gets slightly wearing after about the 5,000th time. It's going to take a bit of getting used to.

Until that day, G is better seen rather than heard. So toys like this Thomas the Tank Engine jigsaw which she spent ages quietly doing, then taking apart, then doing again on the kitchen table, are my current preferred entertainment for her.

Science And Industry

At the moment, Thursday means a day at home for me and a day away from nursery for G, which also means it's down to me to come up with a reason for getting us both out of the house. Today I decided on a trip into Manchester to take G around the Museum of Science and Industry. Or at least the bits I thought she might be interested in.

First, that meant wandering along to the old Liverpool Road station, which dates from 1830 and was a terminus of the world's first proper passenger railway. Now it's part of the museum, but G didn't seem thrilled by my monologue about the remarkable engineering that allowed it to be built, and the tragi-comic death of William Huskisson MP on the railway's opening day. Instead, she pointed at a couple of sections of train standing idle on the track. "Blue one Thomas, red one James. Look daddy, Thomas and James!" Which made a lot more sense.

Inside, I took her around the area aimed at children, which has plenty of hands on things for even little ones to do. The picture shows G turning a wheel, which through a series of gears moves a full-size car up and down. She was extremely impressed at herself, although this time I spared her the physics lecture.

She had such a good time that she didn't want to leave, and I had to bribe her with the promise of ice cream so we could get back home in time for a very late lunch. Although I didn't mind too much. Taking such an interest in trains and gears seems like a good enough reason for a little girl to get a reward.

Father's Day

Yesterday was Father's Day, and frankly I was a bit unsure what to make of it. My instinct has always been to dismiss the whole thing as a load of nonsense dreamed up by greedy executives at greetings card firms. But even though, as a journalist, I've always taken a certain professional pride in being cynical, as my Facebook feed filled up with various friends and acquaintances changing their pictures to ones of their own dads, I had to wonder whether I shouldn't just go along with it all.

On this weekend last year I was in the middle of an epic stag weekend which I'd organised, so the whole question of what to do on Father's Day didn't really materialise. This time, G was old enough to scribble all over a card for me (doing her actual name will have to wait a while yet), and Mrs J gave it to me as we had dippy eggs for breakfast.

And that was enough Father's Day for me. I even bucked convention by cooking my own roast in the afternoon, sticking it to the man in my own maple-glazed way. But seeing as I spend every day with G, the notion of using Father's Day to spend some quality daddy-daughter time with her seemed a bit pointless. Surely, I thought to myself, we should use it an excuse to avoid each other for a day?

I more or less ended up doing that as I negotiated a pass out for the evening. Since having G, and moving next to the largest town in the country without a cinema, my movie going has declined dramatically. But I was very keen to see the Ayrton Senna documentary, and so headed into Manchester to check it out at the Cornerhouse.

One day I'll sit G down on a Sunday afternoon and try to explain to her that her dad has spent an alarmingly large number of Sunday afternoons sat in front of the telly watching Grands Prix. For just now though, I'm happy to leave her playing with her new water table instead. Much more exciting.

Busy Baby

G can't read yet, but she does have a few cardboard books, and she likes to sit and turn the pages. I caught her earlier staring intently at her Winnie the Pooh story about Kanga and Roo, particularly the page saying that wherever Kanga goes, Roo goes too. That could just as easily apply to us, because wherever I go, G has to come along as well.

And the two of us have been pretty busy this week, particularly yesterday. We went into Manchester for the day, and first I treated G to a trip to the Aquatics Centre so she could splash around in the toddlers' pool. Then we met Mrs J for lunch. And after that I pushed her up to the hotel where the In The City music conference has been taking place, so I could meet some friends.

I'd put G in her little Converse shoes so she could fit in a bit more easily with all the hipster music industry types. On the way she managed to be sick over them. As it turned out this actually helped her fit in even better, because there were quite a few hungover people still wearing the previous night's clothes strewn around the hotel bar. At least they were all old enough to know better.

G crawled around happily, playing peek-a-boo with random strangers and generally enjoying being the youngest person there by at least 20 years. I wondered whether the industry people thought she was some kind of music baby, such as Mick Jagger's latest love child. Or, as one of my friends suggested, the more likely option for a Manchester music event of a niece of a member of Doves. She was far too well-behaved to be a rock star baby though. Maybe if I take her again next year she'll have worked out how to throw a proper tantrum.

A Walk Around Ancoats

We're in our last few days in Manchester. The three of us are moving to Dobcross in Saddleworth this Saturday. While this is exciting for lots of reasons, I'm also going to be sad to leave central Manchester behind, so today I took G for a walk around Ancoats, which I've never properly explored despite living nearby all this time.

It's often said that Ancoats was the world's first industrial suburb. This strikes me a nice way of saying it was a poverty-ridden hellhole where lots of factory workers too poor to go anywhere else lived and died, because it was near the mills where they had jobs. However, the first building you see when you walk towards Ancoats from the Northern Quarter isn't an old mill, but this art deco masterpiece:

It's the old Daily Express building. Built in the 1930s by that newspaper's owner Lord Beaverbrook, back when the Express was the best-selling paper in the country. It was a genuinely great paper back then too, but if you've read the Express in the last ten years you'll know that isn't the case anymore. It was so successful in those days that Beaverbrook built three of these office/palaces, with the others on Fleet Street and in Glasgow. Which perhaps suggests he was either too rich for his own good, or a bit mad. Probably both. The building still looks gorgeous though (the Express moved out in the 80s, it's offices now).

Round the back of the old Express building is Cotton Street. Next to Cotton Street is Loom Street. Can you see a pattern developing here? The sign above is on the side of a small knitwear factory, which still appears to be churning out jumpers just as merchants have been doing in Ancoats for a couple of centuries. There aren't many businesses like that left in the area though.

I'd read a little bit about the history of Ancoats before setting out. During the 19th century heydey of the cotton industry, it was, unsurprisingly, full of migrant workers. Initially these were mostly Irish. In 1867, there were so many Irish workers around that the Fenian prisoners sprung from a police van by the Manchester Martyrs managed to hide in Ancoats following their escape, even though they were the most wanted men in the country.

But over time the Irish influence in Ancoats gave way to immigration from Italy, turning the area into, yes, Manchester's own Little Italy. I know, I was surprised too, but this excellent site has a wealth of information about it. Cutting a long story short, the Italian community thrived until Italy ended up on the other side in the Second World War, and all Italian nationals living in Britain were interned on the Isle of Man. By the time they came back to Manchester, a mixture of slum clearances and new suburbs dispersed the Italian families throughout the city.

Anyway, as I wandered around today I was hoping to spot some sign of the area's Italian past, but the only thing left seems to be this Catholic church:

Those banners relate to a campaign to save it, so presumably it's either closed already or is under threat. The pictures are of the most recent Whit Sunday walk, which Italians in Manchester still do every year. At this point G was fast asleep, and I thought to myself that an Italian coffee, or even better an Italian ice-cream, would really hit the spot, but sadly there's nothing like that available in Ancoats anymore. That's despite what the 'inspirational' graffiti on the construction site billboards says:

The only answer to this is, "no, it isn't." That's not to say Ancoats might not become vibrant and desirable one day, or that there's no point in trying to improve the area, but a bit of realism would be more welcome than nonsense like this.

Having said that, the amount of work that's already taken place demonstrates the council and other quangos are clearly keen to make it better. There's already a new public square, called the Cutting Room, complete with murals of the overgrown land which was cleared to make way for it:

However, even though it's a public space, there weren't actually any members of the public around to enjoy it, except for a couple of skateboarders. Admittedly it was a cold day in January, but the old maxim 'if you build it, they will come' hasn't worked here yet.

There are now a fair amount of flats in some of the old mill buildings, but with no shops or pubs or anything like that actually in Ancoats, it's difficult to see why any of the residents would bother hanging around these still rather bleak-looking streets, when the Northern Quarter and central Manchester are just a short walk away.

The Cutting Room square is overlooked by another church, this one Anglican, and very definitely not a church anymore. Like several of the mill buildings in the area, it's been saved from decay in recent years but remains empty, although there's apparently a plan to turn it into a museum of embroidery:

A museum is the sort of attraction that might encourage people to spend a bit of time in the area, which is the only way to get other businesses into Ancoats, which in turn will make it a much more pleasant place to spend time. Unfortunately, despite all the repair work which has obviously gone into many buildings, there are still an awful lot that look pretty decrepit:

I've no idea who Barrow, Hope and Co. were, and neither does Google, so I imagine it's quite some time since they went out of business.

I suppose one of the problems Manchester has when it comes to these wonderful old mills is that, well, there are just so many of them. In most cities an apartment complex in such a building would really stand out, making it a very desirable address. But here the supply of epic Victorian brick structures far outweighs the demand to live in them, let alone the developers' ability to convert them all.

As an example, here's just a small part of the Murrays' Mills complex:

The buildings were saved from ruin in the 90s, and look fantastic (that's the Rochdale Canal at the end of the street, the Murrays even had their own bit of the canal routed into the building on the left). The building on the right now has some flats in it, a bit of office space and even a couple of furniture shops on the canal-front. The building on the left, and it's far bigger than this photo suggests, still appears to be completely empty.

And that's the situation for Ancoats in general. Until more people live, work and spend more of their time in the area, it's not genuinely going to become 'vibrant and desirable' like the PR guff says. Not much of that is going to happen until the recession's over and developers have big money to invest once again.

I hope the improvements to Ancoats continue though, because there's nowhere quite like it anywhere else in the UK. Its rich industrial and social history is (at least partly) told by all the wonderful buildings which still survive, the sort of buildings demolished in other areas. Maybe when G's a bit older I can bring her back, and we can see how much things have changed.

I Never Love England More Than When Covered In Snow

Mrs J went back to work today. We agreed I'd take G down to the office to see her at lunchtime, which would give her something to look forward to if she found it a bit difficult leaving the wee one behind. But when we got up we found something a lot more exciting. It had snowed. A lot.

The picture above is the view from our flat window of the junction of Oldham Street and Dale Street, which is usually busy with plenty of buses. There wasn't much of that this morning though. A quick look at the terrace at the back of the flat demonstrated just how much snow had fallen overnight:

I'm from the north of Scotland so I'm used to a bit of snow, but I've never seen snow like this in the middle of a city like Manchester. Normally it's gone almost as soon as soon as it's fallen, but not today. Paying no attention whatsoever to those 'only go outside if it's really necessary' messages (snowy days are far too exciting to sit inside), I put G in her snowsuit and got her ready to go out:
Getting the pram through the snow was hard going. I thought I'd been sensible by putting a layer of thermals on, but a few minutes of trying to push G along the snowy pavements had me feeling pretty warm. Warm enough in fact to undo my coat, which got a few funny looks from what few passers-by there were.

Outside the Arndale Centre I saw some workers trying to clear the snow. Only they'd run out of grit, and it looked suspiciously like they were putting ordinary table salt on to the steps instead. I suppose it probably has the same effect, although if you discover the supermarkets have run out of Saxa then you'll know why. I pressed on and made it to Urbis for a coffee. Unsurprisingly, we were the only customers.

Afterwards we doubled back on ourselves, and I pushed G through the streets of the city centre. On a much-quieter-than-usual Market Street, people were waiting patiently for a tram, although there weren't many of those around either:

Eventually we made it to Mrs J's office, although G was fast asleep by this stage, and seemed far less excited about the reunion than her mum:

Perhaps when she realises that every day is now daddy-daughter day she might be less sanguine about the whole thing.

I decided to explore a bit more before taking G back home, and in Albert Square I happened upon a really big snowman that some people had built in front of the Town Hall. They'd even given him a penis, although I made sure I tastefully put the pram in front of it for this picture:

The Town Hall itself looked suitably wintry:

By now wishing someone would go on Dragon's Den with a snow plough attachment for prams, I pushed G back through the streets towards home. Being stuck in her snowsuit, G couldn't really move very much, so she just lay there and stared at me in silent contempt:

I thought I'd earned a treat for lunch so popped into Bread and Butter on Tib Street for a flatbread and (another) coffee. So ended our little adventure in the Manchester snow. It was surprisingly deep in places, although not bad enough to scupper our fun. However, I suspect the first time we get snowed in at our new home in Saddleworth it'll be a more serious business altogether.

(The title of this post comes from this song. I could have gone for this one, but I don't think it's aged terribly well.)

Househunting

We're going to move soon. Currently we live in a third floor flat on Oldham Street in Manchester's Northern Quarter. Hanging out in the middle of town is fine for the time being, but one day fairly soon little G is going to start toddling and the amount of space we need is suddenly going to increase.

I don't think we're ready to condemn ourselves to cul-de-sac suburbia quite yet, so we've been spending our weekends visiting little towns and villages trying to find somewhere that's still close enough to Manchester for Mrs J to easily commute from, but also bustling enough to make sure I don't go insane when I'm at home every day with G. Other essentials are decent pubs (that's my idea) and a school with a good Ofsted rating (Mrs J insists on this). After applying these stringent criteria, we've pretty much decided we'd like to live somewhere in Saddleworth.

So we went out there today to take a look at a few properties. We're going to keep hold of our flat in Manchester and let it out, so we're trying to find somewhere to rent ourselves. One thing I've realised just from today is how househunting changes once you've got a baby to consider. Those cool-looking stone steps which an estate agent will tell you "adds character" instead start to look like a nuisance. Old houses split over several floors no longer seem like they'll be fun to live in. I suspect finding somewhere that fits all our new requirements will be harder than it first appeared.

Not that we're in any particular rush, though. And if G behaves as beautifully as she did today then we can go househunting every week as far as I'm concerned (it may come to this, perhaps I should be careful what I wish for). I took the photo at the top as we stopped in for some lunch in Uppermill. She seemed fascinated by the little packet of brown sauce, but hasn't yet worked out how to reach out to something with her hands. So she just stared at it. Such simple things won't keep her amused for much longer though, I fear.

Chinatown

G's grandad is staying with us in Manchester this week, and Mrs J is helping him re-do our bathroom. So for the second day in a row I took G out for a few hours to let them get on with it, and to make sure she didn't get too disturbed by all the clattering and banging.

I decided to push her around town for a bit to get her off to sleep, and once she'd drifted off we ended up in the Wong Wong bakery in Chinatown. The picture is of my nutritious lunch, consisting of a deep fried spicy beef doughnut-type thing (interesting), a red bean and banana cake (amazing) and a cup of Hong Kong tea (dodgy). The tea tasted like English tea that had been left out to stew for a couple of hours, before being reheated in the microwave. I texted a friend who has lived in China to ask him about Chinese tea, and he replied that, although there are some good ones, in his opinion it's often pretty rubbish. I'd have thought that with so much tea coming from China, that they'd have a decent idea of how to brew it up. But apparently not. Maybe it's an acquired taste, which I haven't yet acquired.

Last night, Mrs J's dad babysat for us so we could have our first night out together since G was born. We didn't go far, just round the corner to the newly-renovated Band On The Wall to see Thea Gilmore, who's currently plugging her new Christmas album. It was a great show, and the highlight was probably the sight of Mark Radcliffe (yes, that one) shambling onto stage with a pint in his hand for a couple of duets, including a good go at Fairytale of New York. Incredibly, it's the first time I've heard it this year. No doubt I'll hear the original version plenty of times between now and the 25th, whether I like it or not.

Whitworth Art Gallery

Continuing our patronage of the Manchester arts scene, I took G down to the Whitworth Art Gallery today. Shamefully, during the whole year I studied at the university (which is basically next door) I never actually got round to going to the gallery, so thought I'd better put that right. And besides, people kept telling me the café was brilliant, which is enough reason to visit anywhere.

It's been a cold day in Manchester so I wrapped both G and myself up in plenty of layers and set off for the walk down Oxford Road. I'd arranged to meet a friend for lunch and made sure I turned up in plenty of time so I could have a quick walk around the gallery with G. When it comes to museums I usually prefer looking at stuff rather than art, but I enjoyed an interesting exhibition on American prints of the 20th century. There was also an exhibition about art as it relates to trees, and I have to say that lost me a bit. True to form, G was fast asleep throughout.

We both perked up when it was time to go to the café to meet my friend for a coffee and some food (I had a tasty Indian parsnip soup, who knew the Indians liked their parsnips?). Well I say we both perked up, I certainly did, although as you can see, G remained oblivious to everything until I got her out of her pram so my friend could have a hold. Even then G stayed snoozy, and not even the occasional groups of bored-looking students disrupted her. I tried telling my friend that G isn't always so angelic, but I don't think she believed me.

A Little Adventure In Manchester And Salford

Today was daddy-daughter day. Or, to put it another way, it was can-you-take-the-baby-out-I-need-to-get-some-stuff-done day. So, while Mrs J began work on this year's Christmas cakes, I put G into her pram and pushed her out into Manchester, without much idea of where I was going to take her.

The weather was ok so I decided to go to the Christmas market in Albert Square. I've got no idea why these Christmas markets are always 'German' markets (unless it's got something to do with Prince Albert, that is). Whatever the reason, whenever I've been in previous years I've been hard-pressed to find any German people at all, amidst all the local stallholders saying things like "mug o' Gloo-vine is it love?" in thick Manchester accents. To my surprise, the girl who served me the mug of mulled wine in the picture above did appear to actually be German, although I'm no good with accents so she might just as easily have been from Bury.

I gave G a bottle (of milk, not mulled wine) while we were at the market then walked her around town for a bit. I thought about taking her back home then but she'd dozed off and. as I looked up and saw Victoria Station in front of me, I thought it might be fun to take G for her first trip back to her home city of Salford since she was born. And so, her first-ever train journey was Victoria to Salford Crescent. Not exactly the Trans-Siberian Railway, but long enough for me because it was hot on the train and that made her restless. I managed to settle her back down though and after a short walk through the Salford University campus we reached here.

Peel Park is the oldest park in the world. Or at least it might be. There's some doubt about it as well as a variety of other contenders, but frankly it sounds better to just gloss over all that and let Salford have its bit of glory. It was opened in 1846, after various civic leaders became concerned about all the pollution and disease in industrial Salford and Manchester. If Central Park is the 'lungs' of New York then I suppose Peel Park was intended to be exactly that for Salford. Slowly ambling through all the fallen leaves (which crackled satisfyingly under the wheels of the pram) I came across this.

That mark is 8'6'' above the ground. What's even more remarkable about it is that, looking around, I couldn't actually see where the River Irwell was, which proves it must have been an incredible flood. Amazingly, only three people died. Obviously at this point I had to go and find the river, which didn't take all that long. I pushed G across a green bridge but, as you can see, she remained impassive.

I knew that for part of its route the Irwell serves as the boundary between Manchester and Salford, just like the Tyne separates Newcastle and Gateshead. So I briefly wondered whether I was already back in Manchester. But the wheelie bins outside the nearby houses all had Salford City Council printed on them, so I was a bit confused. Then I spotted another bridge, and pushed G across that one too.

This bridge was a little bit grander than the other one. Presumably Alderman S Rudman JP (he obviously thought it was cool to tell people he was a magistrate) made sure that if it was going to have a plaque with his name on it, it had better look good. Anyway, this bridge was also over the Irwell, which left me even more confused because I'd only gone over the Irwell about half a mile previously and hadn't changed direction. I definitely still wasn't in Manchester though, as this sign suggested.

Seeing as I was obviously getting closer and couldn't remember exactly where the station was I thought I may as well just walk back home, and headed off in the general direction of Manchester. On the way we crossed the Irwell for the third time, at the point I was already familiar with, near the top of Deansgate and close to Victoria Station. That's the bit of the Irwell which separates Manchester and Salford, but it only acts as the border for a relatively short distance. It turns out that the Irwell doubles back on itself not once but twice as it flows through Salford, which explains all of those bridges. If I'm going to educate G all about her home city when she grows up, I think I'd better brush up on the geography myself first.

First Injection

G had the first of her injections today. We'd been warned that babies often don't take too kindly to jabs so both of us took G to the clinic for her shot, just in case it all ended in floods of unbearable tears. G was getting the BCG injection, which protects against tuberculosis. It's actually only 80% effective and lasts just 15 years or so (you may remember getting a booster shot while a teenager, apparently they don't bother with this anymore), but I suppose it's better than actually getting TB. It's only actually given to babies in certain high-risk parts of the country, of which central Manchester is one, although I'm not sure whether this makes G lucky to get the extra protection or unlucky to live in a disease-ridden hellhole.

She was fast asleep when we went into the nurse's room, and I had to wake her up and hold her very steady while the needle went in. There was a bit of screaming, but she dropped back off to sleep in the car on the way home. Next week G gets the full set of baby injections, and apparently it's likely to be a lot more traumatic, so I'll have to remember to stock up on Calpol (note - other child medicines are available, but Calpol's the only one anybody has heard of).

The clinic was in Beswick, right next to where the Manchester Super Casino isn't going to be built. I made sure G was proudly representing her home city of Salford though, as you can see from the photo. The other thing to notice about the photo is that I reckon G looks a lot like me in it. People have been saying that she looks like me for weeks, but I haven't really seen it until now. Obviously she's soon going to have more hair than me, but other than that there's no doubt she's her daddy's little girl.

Dressing Up

Mrs J has taken G down to her regular Monday afternoon mums-and-babies group at Manchester Town Hall. There isn't much in the way of organised activities on offer for parents who live in the city centre, in fact this is just about all there is, so Mrs J has been trying to make it down every week. When she first went down G was just in one of her ordinary sleepsuits (after all, G was asleep, as she usually is when a pram journey is involved), but it turned out all of the other mums had dressed their babies up in proper clothes. Clearly turning up with our daughter in pyjamas just wasn't going to cut it, so we would have to start copying everyone else, if only to avoid the mums-and-babies group equivalent of gossiping at the school gates.

Being only six weeks old, G has about as much interest in clothes as I do. She's a girl, so no doubt that'll change when she's grown up a bit, but for now any attempt to get her out of her comfy sleepsuits and into something resembling real clothes meets with fierce resistance. The picture above shows Mrs J battling with just this problem earlier on. But even though it's possible after a bit of a struggle to get G into her clothes, the real difficulties begin when it's time to get her out of them again.

Sleepsuits are basically just pieces of cotton with lots of strategically placed poppers on them, which means it's easy to get them on and off when it's time for a nappy change. And it's still easy to get them on and off when it's time for another nappy change 45 seconds after the last one (this happens quite a lot). Maybe it's just because I'm male and have no experience of putting on tights like the ones G is wearing in the photo, but when I have to try to take G's on and off it usually ends up taking several minutes, during which time the fidgeting turns to crying then to all-out screaming. If I'm ever allowed to shop for baby clothes, I'm definitely going for some dungarees.

In Praise Of Urbis

Mrs J has gone away to a hen party, which makes today my first full day home alone with G. So I decided to take her out to another of Manchester's museums. A friend is up from London and wanted to see the new exhibitions on UK hip hop and the history of TV in the north-west currently on at Urbis, so all three of us went along. Both of the exhibitions were particularly good, with lots of interesting archive stuff to see. I was particularly taken with all of the vintage Granada programmes being shown in the TV exhibition, although amidst all the eulogising about the wonder of Manchester's TV history there was sadly no mention of Granada Men and Motors and the short-lived show presented by Vanilla Ice and Jordan. Can't think why.

G wasn't quite so impressed, in fact she slept the whole time, which at least meant we could take in everything at our leisure. As you can see, the photo above shows G completely ignoring a collection of hip hop magazine covers. Don't let her verdict put you off though, both of the exhibitions are on until the spring and I'd recommend each of them if you get the chance to go. In fact there are plenty of good reasons to visit Urbis anytime, including the beautiful building itself, the family-friendly cafe, and the fact that it is free, which you don't have to be Scottish to approve of. After a controversial start to its existence back in 2002, Urbis has now become of the best things about Manchester.

However, it looks like things are going to change. The trustees of the National Football Museum in Preston want to move it to Urbis, and they will probably get their wish. Basically not enough people visit the museum at its current location, so it loses money. The people who run it reckon they could get four times as many folk through the doors if it were housed at Urbis. No doubt they're right, and if there's going to be a football museum anywhere it may as well be in Manchester. But if Urbis fills up with balls and caps and scarves, there won't be much space left for the sort of exhibitions I went to see today. More's the pity.

On The Radio

I was on the radio today talking about G. My friend Sam is covering the lunchtime show on BBC Radio Manchester this week (Andy Crane who usually does the programme is away somewhere, presumably with Edd the Duck), and was doing a phone-in about paternity leave. Apparently lots of new dads are too worried about losing their jobs to even take the two weeks off that they're entitled to. So I talked a bit about deciding to stay at home and suchlike. You can hear it all again here for the next week (I'm on about 21 minutes in).

I took G down to university this afternoon to meet some friends from the MA course I finished last month. They've all begun PhDs so were happy to take the opportunity for a break so they could have a coffee and coo over the little one. I suppose if we hadn't had G, I'd probably be doing the same as them now, spending my days reading journal articles and hanging around the mustier parts of the library. G certainly gave them the impression that my life is easier than theirs, as she snoozed happily the whole time I was there.

I took the picture on the walk back to the flat, as I briefly sheltered from the rain on Sackville Street. It was one of those typically dark and drizzly Manchester days, but G was warm and sleepy under her rain cover. One of my uni friends was impressed by the cocoon-like pram, and reckoned it would be good to have one for adults, complete with a giant person (possibly Brian Blessed) to put you in there and wake you up again later. I think it's brilliant. In fact the only flaw I can see in the plan would be what would happen if the machines rose up and seized power. Being run by an army of 15-foot Brian Blesseds is an alarming thought, to say the least.

Real Ale

We all got plenty of sleep, and after the midwife had visited this morning we decided to go for a trip around town. Mrs J put G in the hoodie that she dyed for her (she bought a load of cheap baby clothes in white and coloured them, every little helps you know). However, it's a bit on the big side, so far from making G look like a newborn yob ready to threaten pensioners and get an ASBO, she more closely resembled Little Red Riding Hood's younger sister. A sort of Even Littler Red Riding Hood.

We stopped by Mrs J's work so all of her colleagues could coo over her. Conveniently, this took us close to Albert Square, so I persuaded Mrs J to let me stop in to the real ale festival tent for a drink and a snack. She needed to get some cash so told me to go in while she went to a machine. As I pushed the pram towards the crowd of drinkers, I realised that I was about to very publicly walk up to a bar and get a pint of foaming local beer with a ten-day old child solely in my care. It's the sort of behaviour that gets you onto the front page of the Daily Mail underneath screaming headlines featuring words like "disgrace," "shame" and "the unacceptable face of Britain." So I waited for Mrs J to come back and we went in together.

Just as well, because once we'd sat down I spotted this rather ominous sign. It's as if they knew I was coming.