Manchester has always been home
FALLOWFIELD. Chorlton. Didsbury. Whalley Range. Suburbs which define my life in Manchester. Fallowfield is where my parents moved to when I was 11, and also where I attended Manchester High School for Girls.
Chorlton is where Richard once owned a flat, and where our youngest son Jack first went to primary school. Leafy, elegant Didsbury is where Richard and I lived for many years and brought our four children up. Whalley Range, where until very recently another of my sons, daughter-inlaw and granddaughter lived.
Places I associate with family, love and peace. Now linked for ever with the evil maniac who deliberately planned to kill the children of others at a teenybopper concert in Manchester Arena. Fallowfield, now not just my old home, but his too. Chorlton, where police arrested the bomber’s brother. Whalley Range, where they raided flats belonging to terror suspects. Didsbury, my oasis, where the monstrous Salman Abedi attended the local mosque.
As the TV cameras filmed these locations I felt sick to my stomach. To think such horror has contaminated life in the very places which represent my warmest, safest feelings of happiness and contentment is just beyond belief.
Those lovely little girls on the news. The photos of those who will never go home again. The survivors, bravely telling reporters of the panic and chaos that terminated their lovely, exciting evening. They are all beautiful, teenage girls today. They seem to be evolving into some kind of superior species.
Then there were the parents. Those whom we saw during their agonised wait to discover if their lovely girls were safe. The sobbing mother who, we found out next day, had indeed lost her child to the most evil act imaginable.
I love Manchester still, even though work took me to London 20 years ago. The city is in my bones. My children still feel proud of their Mancunian heritage. And as I watched those parents on the TV news, the taxi drivers who switched off their meters to take trembling girls to safety, the men and women who gave comfort to children they’d never met, and who phoned mums and dads at home to tell them their daughters were safe. I felt incredibly proud too.
But what are we going to do, everyone? Our very way of life, loving parents waiting for excited little girls as, full of joy, they stream out clutching their souvenir pink balloons, is under threat. This family warmth and protectiveness is emblematic of the way we live here.
We can’t let these people kill our children. Enough is enough. Surely their protection must be a general election issue.
We need to draw a line – and next month’s vote should be definitive; not just about social care, the NHS and taxes but the biggest priority of all. Our children’s safety.