Last Thursday, looking forward to a leisurely lunch with my cousin and his wife.
Thanks to my useless lungs and their various ailments, we all walk with sticks. Yet in spite of oor decrepitude, we can eat like horses.
Miller and Carter is oor favourite eatooterie thanks to its huge steaks and being only a totter awa’ fae oor bus-stops.
Caught the 12.11pm, which meant I’d be only about five minutes late for the 12.30pm date, after the 13 did its meander roon the henhooses and haystacks of Bridge Street, Guild Street and Market Street.
At the top of King’s Gate comes on a wifie complaining like stink she’d been waitin’ 40 minutes. Sat beside me. I commiserated – same happened to me last week. Quine behind us joined in – happened to her the day afore. Get a grip First Bus.
Nearing Union Street, we heard sirens and some sort of “incident” vehicle zoomed past.
At Rose Street we saw the road ahead jammed with fire engines and police cars. Fit the…?
Next thing a bobby tells oor driver to turn round and go back up Albyn Place.
That was like a red rag to a bull to the other passengers. My fine wifie and the rest o’ them bolted aff pronto.
In a bit o’ a daze, and nae sure why, I followed them. I certainly didnae want to go back the wye I’d come.
Looked at my watch. It was 12.25pm. Fit tae dee? Naturally, fit I aye dee – went into panic-mode.
Phoned my cousin to blubber my plight, vowing to get there as soon as poss, hopefully by taxi. He didnae sound convinced, saying he thought a huge chunk of Union Street had been closed.
To nearby Chapel Street, praying I’d see at least one cab in the rank which could take the back road. Not a car. Nothin’ for it but a marathon pech to the bottom of Union Street.
I passed firefighters dampin’ doon what had been a huge blaze at Vovem, luckily with no one seriously hurt.
Then I discovered the whole thoroughfare was closed to traffic until you got to the … permanently closed bit. How ironic!
Because of my gammie lungs, I canna walk fast and even then have to puff in and oot wie a noise like a steam engine.
Tryin’ to go as fast as I could, I groaned and rattled my wye doon. At one point, a mannie in front of me whisked roon lookin’ positively terrified. I suspect he thocht Darth Vader was on his trail.
Plootered and puffed, at Back Wynd I hit my “stuff this for a day oot,’ point. In a state of near collapse, I wheezed up to the first car in the taxi rank and pleaded with the old guy to take me the tiny distance up to Broad Street, adding: “I don’t mind fit it costs.” (Silly ass, Mo.)
The reluctant gadgie explained he only accepted cash and if he took me he’d hae to return to the end of the huge taxi queue. (My God – did he want my body???)
I apologised and pleaded some more. He turned oot to be my wonderful Knight of the Road whisking me aff, berating me for a lifetime of smoking and charging just a fiver.
Thanks, mister. You fair helped a damsel in distress.
I panted up to their table just on 1pm. After a’ that stress, we a’ got stuck into the vino plonko and each polished off a gigantic ‘tomahawk’ pork chop, about the size Davy Crockett would have wolfed.
After which we’d barely the energy to stand let alone dodder to oor bussies. Fa said a leisurely lunch?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
Conversation