Five Things We Learned In Corrie This Week

Age ain't nothing but a number.  Peter Barlow turns 54 this year, an age where most men would be happily settling into the sofa with a pot belly and a box of Maltesers.  Our Pete may have developed a sudden fondness for roll-neck sweaters but that's his only concession to acting his age.  This week he managed to lock tongues with two of the Street's ladies, grappling with Carla and snogging her face off after a session of intensive verbal byplay.

She rejected him on the not unreasonable grounds that he'd just been diddling Abi.  And when I say "just", I mean "about ten minutes earlier".  Carla had spotted this from that little balcony around Underworld, marking the first time that bit of the set has been used since Eileen got her head stuck in the bars and had to be rescued by Paul the Racist Fireman.

It should be noted that there's a full decade between Peter and Carla, and probably double that between him and Abi.  Seb's seventeen, so she's probably mid-thirties - although if she's using Sarah-Louise Rules, she might be even younger.  Yet somehow, Peter gets away with it, the old rogue.  He's a one-man charm machine and could probably seduce most of the ladies of the Street from Emma to Emily without it ever seeming odd or awkward.  He's just that kind of sex beast.

I'm not sure how he managed to have sex with Abi on that boat though; how do you relax into the moment when you're suspended ten feet in the air?  One multiple orgasm, you shake it off its frame and suddenly you're stark naked and goose pimply in Gail's back garden.

Be ready for Tidying Up With Mary Taylor.  The world is captivated by Netflix's Marie Kondo, the decluttering guru whose adherence to simplicity and minimalism has been both applauded and derided.  Who knew that Weatherfield had its own version waiting in the wings?  Mary spoke warmly of her new philosophy, shui-hygge, as she dedicated herself to a new cleanliness inspired by both Chinese and Scandinavian wisdom.  There may be a reason God put those two countries so far apart but never mind, she's offering up comfort and spirituality in one handy package.  While Marie suggests that no-one should own more than thirty books, Mary is more lenient, merely suggesting you chuck out any volumes you may have bought in support of your fraudulent offspring, and while Marie demands "does this spark joy?" Mary is much more "can you be bothered with it?"  I've decided to devote my life to the ways of shui-hygge, mainly because that way I won't have to rent a skip.

But she's made up her mind, she's keeping her baby.  So let's get this straight.  Amy doesn't want a baby.  She doesn't want to take care of a child at all.  But for some reason she doesn't want to have a termination either, so this fourteen year old girl is instead going to spend nine months carrying the baby - with all the attendant physical and mental strains involved - before handing it over for adoption.  Except now she's going to give it to Steve and Tracy to bring up, meaning she'll have to spend the rest of her life looking at a child she didn't want.  And presumably pretending it's her little brother or sister, when literally everyone around her will know she's the real mother.  You might have been able to get away with that sort of thing in the 1920s, when you could send a pregnant girl away to her aunt in Scotland for six months, but that requires a level of secrecy that the McDonalds don't have.  The cat is very much out of the bag.  This seems like the absolute worst of all possible worlds and I can't work out why anyone thinks this is a good idea.  It's absolutely riddled with pitfalls and way too complicated.  Where's Ken?  He's been conspicuously absent throughout all this, not even appearing to do his usual trick of gritting his teeth and running a hand through his hair while hissing "Tracy!".  Can we not get him in to be the calm voice of logic and reason in all this and stop us getting a substandard version of EastEnders' iconic "You ain't my muvva!/Yes I am!" scene in about fifteen years time?

Worship at the Temple of Groom.  David's plans for his barber proceeded apace, with Gary getting the contract to fit the place out with a craft beer bar to attract "hipsters, not hip replacements".  This place sounds absolutely horrific.  Getting your hair cut is awful already without being forced to drink Punk IPA and listen to Kasabian.  The very best barber is one who sits you down, cuts your hair in silence, then sends you on your way, all within ten minutes tops.  I don't want to hang out with a bunch of moustachioed idiots on unicycles talking about vegan wraps.  Weatherfield is getting far too trendy for my liking.  I don't want it being gentrified and the Street being rebranded as a row of "workmen's cottages" filled with architects and accountants using the tram to commute into Spinningfields.

The one plus side of the new barber shop is Seb might finally get his hair cut.  I am this close to hanging around outside ITV Studios with a pair of shears and chopping that topknot off myself.

There is one very important rule for pub landladies.  No, not "something about nuts" as Jenny first suggested.  The rule is that you slap on the lippy, hold your head up high and march out behind the bar to show a bold brave face, as Rita told her in what was accurately described as one of her Now Listen Here Lady Talks.  It was the boot up the backside Jenny Bradley needed and she was soon out front in the Rovers again, albeit with a snifter of Dutch Courage to keep her going, smiling through her pain like Bet Lynch at her finest.  Much as I hope she gets through her upcoming criminal case to remain landlady, I have to admit there was a tiny part of me that squeed when Johnny revealed he was signing the pub over to Carla for legal reasons.  Imagine Carla doling out the pints of Newton and Ridley and providing wisdom from under the optics.  It'd be amazing.

Maureen Lipman is incredible.  That is all.  Join the author in worshipping her brilliance on Twitter @merseytart.

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