Plottin’ did ye say? I’ll never utter the words “tsaffa cal’” again.
My heart goes out to those poor Queen’s Guardsmen outside Buckingham Palace and Downing Street, plootered under the stifling weight of those wretched bearskins. I near grat when I saw one of the forbidden-to-move soldiers, sweat poorin’ doon his face, being fed a drink.
Why in the name of all that’s merciful are they not in lighter uniforms, bearskins binned? Who needs a foreign foe when the top brass can be torturers?
I’ve been trying to follow instructions about how to keep the house cool, opening windows front and back. But really, really daren’t keep my bedroom window open overnight. I’ve this dread of some animal loupin’ in and on to my bed. Giz me the heebies just thinkin’ aboot it.
I hear you scraik: “Dinna be such a coordie, Mo. It’ll never happen.” Oh no? Well, when mum left her ground floor bedroom window open overnight one long, hot summer, she woke up to a thieving gadgie trying to climb in. More angry than feart, she rasped oot: “Scraaaam!” and he was offski. Brave lady.
I’ve been spending time with my biggest fan
The first the heat really hit me was Sunday, around 8pm. Off wi’ my claes and into a loose goonie. Still plottin’, I to the garage to dig oot my ancient fan; the one I used to be loaned by the supplies mannie at Aberdeen Journals during my constant whinging that the air conditioning wisnae workin’ right.
He aye insisted it wiz. (It wisnae.) On my last day in 2008, when I trundled it back to his office, he said I could keep it.
It’s antique, horrendously heavy, caked in dust I canna remove. But, this week, I’ve been humphin’ it aroon wi’ me like a life-saving hospital drip. With three speeds – the highest a richt super-turbo – it fair works wonders coolin’ my fevered (amongst other things) brow.
Sadly, at top speed, it sounds like a jumbo jet takin’ aff, so if I use that watching telly, my sound has to be up to thunderous-mode. I worry my neighbours might have their windows open and… so sorry.
Has anyone seen a lesser-spotted number 23 bus?
Monday morning, a couple of jobbies to do, I loaded up with water, wet wipes and donned a floaty skirt and top. Afeart of a long wait for a bussie now there are only three drivers on First rotas, I taxied doon, did the bizz, then into Albert Street for a 23 (every 10 minutes).
I have sympathy for all of First’s passengers, not only on hot days, but throughout what looks like being a long period of timetable chaos
Sun beatin’ doon. No bench to sit on at the stop. I waited. No 23s going in the opposite direction – an ominous sign.
I checked First online to find the welcome news re cancelled services: “These will no longer be displayed on our website.” Gee, thanks. And, no, I don’t have the app.
The lesser-spotted green thingie finally arrived, half an hour late. By then, I was near passin’ oot, hurdies achin’. Of course, the bus was packed.
I have sympathy for all of First’s passengers, not only on hot days, but throughout what looks like being a long period of timetable chaos – particularly the old and disabled. Are we really expected to turn up at stops not knowing whether we have five minutes or three quarters of an hour to wait?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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