Once kint a wifie aye answered: “Up and doon,” (voice matching) whenever I speared: “Fit like?”
Well, I’ve deffo just had a coupla up-and-doon days. Thursday, a’ tarted up, oot for the 12.10pm.
First into toon for my 12.30pm lunch. Rain starts dingin’ doon aroon 12.15pm, turnin’ into a major lash.
Mo and more drooket, cowerin’ under the wee shelter, leggies and feet soaked by every passing vehicle splooshin’ into the growing lake by the stop. Still bus was there none.
A rare sighting at 12.40pm. “You’re half-an-hour late,” sez me, sipin’ and spittin’. Here’s the driver, proodly: “Nuh. I’m only five minutes late. Nae idea fit happened tae the een afore.”
Superb customer service.
After oor meal, at The Town House in South Silver Street, the taxi I’d booked the day before for 3pm for my pal fae Dyce was another no-show.
Phoned. Apologies, they’d sent it yesterday by mistake. They’d send another immediately.
So, three wifies wie their sticks hobbled ootside to wait … and wait. After another 10 minutes, checked my phone to track the missing cab. Gotcha – ootside the flaming real Toon House in Broad Street! Man was I seethin’. Bad day at black rock.
By comparison, Saturday was a delight. My quine and her man have several close pals from their different schooldays, most of whom now have bairns.
I was excited when my quine arranged a day to Perth races
She’s a gregarious craiter and there’s nothing she likes better than a good get-together so, ages ago, she organised a coach to Perth Races. Nothing funcy; just the picnic area with loads of space for the kids. Bring yer ain food.
Well, that was like a red-rag to the other grunnie and me. Compulsive feeders, for weeks we’ve been switherin’ aboot fit food to pack, me even lashin’ oot on a funcy-pants cool-bag.
When we eventually got to the tables and unpacked, her and me had enough nosh to feed every race-goer not to mention a few of the runners. Sandwiches, sausage rolls, crisps, pork pies, quiches, cheese, biscuits, chocolate. And guess fit? A’body just stuck to their ain hampers.
Even the kids only had a mouthful or two of their favourites. Two al’ wifies ended up stuffed to the gunnels in a vain bid to empty some o’ oor mountain o’ Tupperware.
Best bit o’ the day was the race run by a horsie ca’ed Here Comes Georgie.
Word went roon oor group that one of the wee yins was eight-year-old Georgie – nae Georgina – spelt exactly like the nag.
A’body made a beeline for the bookies to find the best odds. Some got 25/1. Luckier eens got 33/1. Guess fit? Oor wonderful Georgie girl romped home first and made an affa lot of our increasingly happy party even happier.
As we wended oor wye back to the bus, we spotted the ultimate sight for sore eyes. Three wifies dressed to the nines – presumably fae the posh pavilion – cairtin’ their mate.
Peer soul was like a newly netted fish the wye they were totin’ her – heidie drappin doon, their arms a’ween her danglie legs. I suspect the cairriers wernae in much greater condition than the cairried. But I bet they a’ had a ball.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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