On Tuesday, I asked my partner Sara if she would like to dance with me across the kitchen, and as we swirled gracefully, yet with a growing sense of irritation to the tune of Duke Ellington’s Satin Doll, we knew in our hearts, that just a few miles away, set in a green oasis of calm and looking over a goose and duck filled lake at Lingley Mere (this is the description for a vast office complex between junctions 7 and 8 of the M62 at Warrington,) another couple were dancing to the same tune.
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This column may be a slightly odd one this week, as yesterday, my mother died. I had intended to perhaps not write it. Then I considered writing a column about whatever was in the news, but realised I hadn't seen or heard any news, and had no intention of doing so.
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I don’t know about you (naturally – I have no idea who you are), but when I read articles about the findings of studies, the subject of which relates in some way to my own life, there is an instant need in me to pitch myself against the findings – to see how I fare up against Joe Public, and to hopefully come away with a quietly smug realisation that in some way, I have bucked a trend.
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Can anybody reveal to me the mystery of where a cache of treasures may be, that belong to the people of Didsbury? I ask, because last week Didsbury Civic Society invited those interested to wander around the hauntingly pretty grade 11 listed Old Parsonage, left to the City Council by Alderman Fletcher Moss, and now standing empty.
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