Cue Frankie Valli’s Oh, What A Night.
The ups and doons of two wifies on a rare Saturday night oot. Taking a totter doon memory lane, to the Tivoli, where we were on stage together 70 years ago. Members of Babs Wilson’s dancers, with shows there every Easter until we graduated to HMT.
The nostalgic wrinklies started at the Station Hotel for a meal that used to be a major treat in those days – high tea. Is there onything to beat it? Main course, toast, tea, scones and jam, then funcy pieces. Gut-bustin’ nectar of the gods. Well done to the Station; good food, waitresses superb, but need more of them.
Into the superbly refurbished Tivoli. Tears in oor een when we could almost see our two sets of prood parents in the stalls, applauding their wee quines.
Then, that cracker of a memory which had us giggling like the six-year-olds we were. The big Scottish scene when we all trooped on to do our various Highland dances, me halfway up an embankment of supposed green grass, her in star position right at the top of the hill.
We let fly into some frenetic Heelan’ flings when, suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I spied her going down, down, never to come up, up again. In hindsight, it was exactly that moment in the Comic Relief Amarillo song, when Ronnie Corbett hiters off the moving treadmill and disappears.
As we heaved with laughter at the memory, sez she: “It actually could have been serious. The top of the hill just smashed and I plunged down under the stage, left with a huge gash in my leg.” All I could do was snort.
We were there for the excellent Voices Of Swing show, although I suspect the audience hadn’t expected my pal’s voice to be part of it. Me rummaging in my bag for something, she shouts above the music: “Manage?” Sadly, it was uttered half a beat after the dramatic, sudden end to a ballad. Spik aboot affronted. Sorry, folks.
Locked ootski
In the taxi home, we congratulated oorsellies on how our super evening had gone to plan. As I fished aboot for my credit card, I suddenly got that adrenalin rush of fear. It all came back to me; I’d changed my handbag before comin’ oot, but hadn’t taken my key.
However, thanks to locking masellie ootski a few weeks ago, I’d heeded urgings my from my frustrated kids and given a spare one to my neighbour next door. Relief!
It was only 10.30pm, hopefully not too late to disturb. Texted him. No response. Phoned. Nuh. Whole house must be asleep.
Nothing for it but to divert taxi up to my quine’s place for her key. She wisnae that amused. Nor, indeed, was my granddaughter in her red babydoll pyjamas who, when she appeared at the door, I mistook for her little brother in his Dons strip and scraiked: “Good luck for tomorrow!” Oh, what a night.
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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