Haircut

G had her first-ever haircut today. For a while her hair's been growing at an alarming rate. Where once there was just a bit of fuzz, now there's a big blonde mop, so much so that the easiest way to pick her out of a room full of little ones is to look for her hair, which is much longer and thicker than everyone else's.

So I took her into the Northern Quarter salon where Mrs J was having hers done this afternoon, and sat with her on my knee as the hairdresser gave G a trim. She sat quietly throughout, and looked more puzzled than anything else. G's reward is that she now has a fringe, which also means her hair isn't constantly in her eyes and I don't have to fidget around with hairclips, so it's good news all round.

Later we went along to Oldham's Twestival, a charity fundraising event with various child-friendly entertainment on offer. G was particularly pleased with the balloon which the clown modelled for her, even though to me the pink "flower" looked decidedly more phallic than anything else.

In fact, G liked it so much she refused to let it go, even when she met a new friend, Oldham Athletic mascot Chaddy The Owl:

The mascot seemed very taken with my little girl. But given Oldham's current form, meeting G may be the first thing Chaddy has had to smile about in quite a while.

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.

Greater Manchester Police Museum

You can live somewhere for years and never bother seeing things that are right beside you. I must have walked past the Greater Manchester Police Museum on Newton Street hundreds of times since we moved to the Northern Quarter, but I'd never been in, even though I do have a sneaky interest in old crimes and suchlike. One reason why I'd never been is that the museum's only open on Tuesdays, but with Mrs J meeting a friend for lunch and today being Tuesday, I decided I'd pop round and see what was in there.

As you can see, a lunchtime feed and a short ride in the pram was enough to send G off to sleep, so I was able to push her around the museum without any trouble. I remember hating being forced to go around museums when I was a young child, and constantly complaining about it whenever my mum wanted to visit one. No doubt G will be the same, so it's probably not a bad idea to take advantage of the fact she's not yet old enough to understand what's going on. My museum-hating lasted well into my teens, so there's likely to be a long period ahead when I don't get to see much interesting historical stuff without a soundtrack of whingeing and, if G gets a little brother or sister, bickering.

As it was G slept right through my hour or so inside the small museum, which is in an old police station that closed for the last time in 1978. Among the interesting things to see are a variety of uniforms, including an amazing one from the 1840s which featured a very fetching top hat. The old cells are all still there along with a collection of 19th century mugshots, in which lots of the suspects deliberately tried to pull a gurning face so they couldn't be recognised, something that I must remember to try next time I'm arrested. For fans of more recent history there's also a smashed in prison door and some homemade weapons used in the Strangeways Riot. All very interesting and also free, so well worth checking out if you're ever in the area.

I've realised that most of the pictures of G on this blog are of her sleeping because, well, that's when she looks at her angelic best and those are the only times I actually remember to find the camera and take a picture. But she's quickly developing a much wider range of expressions when she's awake, and is even threatening to give us the odd smile. Haven't managed to catch one of those in a photo yet, but here's one of her from last night, resolutely refusing to go to sleep.

Manchester Blog Awards

I went to the Manchester Blog Awards last night. My other blog The Asparagus was nominated for best political blog two years ago, but they don't have that category anymore. This is either because my blog was just so good it was embarrassing for everyone else, or because there aren't really enough Manchester political blogs to justify it, I'm not really sure which. Anyhow, although I wasn't nominated this time I was looking forward to the event so I could catch up with some other local bloggers, and so I could see inside the newly reopened Band On The Wall where it was taking place.

To make up for going out at night I took G out in her pram during the day so Mrs J could get some power napping in, and also so I could proudly show off a bit. Walking down Tib Street I bumped into Emily, who writes My Shitty Twenties, and was coming out of Rags to Bitches where she'd picked up some glad rags for the ceremony. She leaned over the pram and cooed over the snoozing G. Then, the florist from Northern Flower next door came outside and did the same.

Even though I've met her a few times and know her well enough to say hello when I see her, I really can't remember what the florist's name is. That's if I even knew it in the first place. This meant I couldn't introduce her to Emily, and I quickly became worried that I was being extremely rude to both of them. But although I was concerned about this, I still couldn't quite bring myself to just say straight out that I'd forgotten her name and could she tell me it again. Obviously the social embarrassment of admitting my ignorance slightly outweighs the social embarrassment of quietly hoping the awkwardness will be over soon. So I just stood there, with the Curb Your Enthusiasm music going over in my head. I got away with it, but because I didn't find out her name this time, I'm going to have the same awkward situation next time I run into the florist. Basically I'm just a social coward.

As for the awards, the venue looked great and a good time was had by all. A big thank you to Kate Feld for organising the whole thing. There were some worthy winners, not least Emily who won best personal blog and best writing on a blog. Another excellent site, Lost in Manchester, won the overall prize for blog of the year as well as best city or neighbourhood blog. There's a full list of winners and other nominees, and links to them all, here. I can particularly recommend The Manchester Zedders, Cynical Ben and I Thought I Told You To Wait In The Car.

I left early and spent a few hours with an annoyingly wide awake G. Trying to get her to sleep I even resorted to pushing the pram around the block at almost 1 o'clock in the morning. It was cold, G had the hiccups, and unlike during the day, it didn't have the desired effect. I can now confirm that pushing a baby around the Northern Quarter in the middle of the night is not nearly as much fun as it is during the afternoon.

Eyes Bigger Than Her Stomach

G was very peckish at lunchtime. Mrs J had given her a feed but she still seemed to want a bit more. So Mrs J decided to make up a little bottle of formula to make sure G didn't go hungry. We'd done this a couple of times before and it had gone ok, and sure enough after the top-up G was quickly into a deep sleep. Feeling smug, we took her around town and even stopped off at Common in the Northern Quarter on the way back for a hot chocolate (Mrs J) and a cheeky pint of Marble Manchester Bitter (me).

This smugness lasted until shortly after we got home, when G sicked up everywhere. Then, after a brief interlude during which Mrs J changed her clothes and calmed the little one down, G was sick again. This prompted a bit of low-key whining from G, and a more heartfelt outburst from Mrs J: "I've only got two pairs of trousers that fit, and she's just been sick over both of them!" Still, looking on the bright side, it was baby's first proper vomit. As reasons to celebrate go it's not exactly up there with first words or first tooth, but it's better than nothing I suppose.

As you can see from the picture, Mrs J has forgiven G. We all eat too much every now and again after all. But we're going to Birmingham tomorrow for a friend's wedding on Saturday, and if G throws up all over Mrs J's dress during the reception, I don't think she'll be quite so forgiving.

Baby Hates Shoegaze

Mrs J had an appointment to get her hair done this lunchtime, so we decided to go on a little outing around the Northern Quarter. Putting G in the local hipster uniform of American Apparel hoodie and Converse (yes, basically dressing your child up as yourself is a bit weird, but when else will we get to do this?), we took her to the salon so the hairdresser could coo over her. Then, leaving Mrs J there, I pushed G round the corner to Oklahoma so I could get a birthday card for a friend and sit down with a coffee.

This was the first time I'd been out with G on our own, and Mrs J had expressed some milk into a bottle in case she got peckish. But although she woke up and squirmed a bit, as you can see from the picture she was ok once I took her out of the pram. At one stage a mum with a slightly older baby girl came in and sat down at a nearby table. I secretly hoped G would react to this cuteness rival by taking an instant dislike to her, rather like the baby with one eyebrow from The Simpsons, but she didn't even seem to notice she was there.

G likes riding in her pram and had dozed off again by the time I got near the flat, so I stopped in at Vinyl Exchange. Of the many record shops near where I live it's probably my favourite, and there's always a smattering of students and slightly older hipsters in there, intensely searching the shelves and never making eye contact with anyone. But as I parked the pram next to the counter, I did notice a few people couldn't resist stealing quizzical glances at G. However, I couldn't tell whether this was because I was the first person ever to take a baby in there, or because I was the first person ever to take a girl in there.

In the end, as I was flicking through a stack of shoegaze records, G started crying. She was obviously trying to tell me something, so I took her home. Clearly you can dress babies up like their parents, but you can't teach them to like all the same stuff.

Cool As

G had her first trip out of the flat today. And it was the start of our efforts to make her the coolest baby in Manchester. The three of us went round the corner to the Ruby Lounge for Mr and Mrs Boon's tea party, which is a sort of family-friendly gig mixed with afternoon tea run by Clint and Charlie Boon. By the time we got there the queue was already out the door, but having a tiny baby meant we were allowed to go straight in. Who knew it could be such an advantage? Not sure if it'll work in actual nightclubs though.

Clint plays keyboards in Inspiral Carpets and I know him a bit from reading the news on his show on Xfm Manchester. He was one of lots of friends who congratulated us on the little one's arrival, and as you might expect I thoroughly enjoyed showing her off to everyone. Some of them couldn't believe Mrs J was up and about and looking so well after just four days, or that G was sleeping through all the noise and excitement (the place was packed, with loads of kids running around). When the band came on things got a bit loud and we decided not to push our luck and so we made an early exit before she woke up.

G's beautiful behaviour was all a bit of an illusion, because she'd actually worn herself out screaming most of the night. She carried on during the morning, until I turned on the Grand Prix qualifying I'd recorded, whereupon she went straight off to sleep. Even from an early age, girls obviously find motor racing dull.