The public, and particularly pensioners, are expected to risk their necks every time temperatures drop across the north-east, writes Moreen Simpson.
Here’s hopin’ that’s the last of the baltic weather.
The front of my hoosie facing north, my driveway was sheet ice for about a week. Normally my son-in-law spreads rock salt, but every shop he tried was sold oot.
Oh, the state of me on Thursday morning, having ordered a taxi to the hairdresser because I knew the streets were bad. Danglin’ a bottle of prosecco in a gift bag for her 50th birthday, I slowly, gingerly, felt my way oot to the car on the road.
I clutched onto the front of the hoose, then roon to the wee side wall, the bottle clunkin’ and clankin’ against the granite with every shooglie step. The driver, who’d been into his phone, obviously heard my din, loupin’ oot to proffer a helping arm, warning: “You’ll either brak a bone or yer bottle.”
That afternoon, I even managed to negotiate oot my recyclin’ bin in a sort of very slow Skaters Waltz routine, which wouldn’t have scored bad in Dancing on Ice.
‘Ye shouldna be oot’
Friday came the real nightmare. I decided to up to Farmfoods for cheap salt to de-ice my drive. Same palaver gettin oot, leanin’ on the hoose and the wall. Turns oot, that was the easy bit.
Every pavement was packed ice. Unwalkable. Even the middle of the side roads up to the shop were treacherous. A gadgie shouted: “I’d gie ye a han’ hen, but I damn’t near skited masel’. Ye shouldna be oot.” Too true.
I was risking having a serious fall to buy something… to stop me having a serious fall. How feel is that?
Made it to Farmfoods to discover there’d been, yup, a run on salt. Not a grain left. Shssh…ave a bandie.
Into the wee shoppie doon a bit for butteries, whining: “Dinna suppose ye’ve ony salt?” Sez the cheery cove: “Foo much dye want? Sellin’ like hotcakes so I bought up more this mornin’.” The joy of a well-run corner shoppie ower a big chain.
Homeward bound, I stuck to the ice-free gutters of the main roads. Easier said than done. Even though I was dutifully facing the oncoming traffic, some drivers still veered so close they almost skimmed my anorak. Sods.
Public were expected to risk their necks
On my own street, I crossed to my side, only a few minties later to hear something grunging close behind – a ruddy great bus right up my bum! Good job the driver didn’t peep, otherwise I’d have tiddled masellie.
Home safely to spread the salt, made the happy discovery our bins hadn’t been emptied. Well, there’s a fine how-de-do. I’m presuming it was too icy for the poor scaffies to humph the wheelies on untreated surfaces. Health and safety, eh?
Yet, the public, particularly pensioners, were expected to risk their necks. And, if the waste gangs were having a day off, couldn’t they have been alternatively employed gritting the pavements?
Oor cooncil spends tens of millions of pounds on harebrain schemes, like the revamp at the beach and Union Terrace Gardens, when all we really, really want is a bittie of sand or salt to keep us safe in winter. The way it used to be.
Shame on everyone responsible for the lethal state of our city last week.
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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