This time of year is for memories of golden Christmases past and loved ones no longer with us.
Typical me though, my most memorable and, unfortunately, unforgettable Christmas is not so much golden as tear-stain rusted.
It should all have been so magical. Late 1973, when I’d been gan oot wi’ this loon for a couple o’ years, heid-ower-heels fae the start. He wisnae. Finished with me twice.
Scunnert and sad the romance was gan nae-wye and Karen Carpenter’s heart-breaking It’s Goodbye To Love almost drove me aff the road to work as the tears welled.
One night I announced I needed to tell him something ie I was sick-and-tired and it was all over for good.
He, it transpired, thought I was going to say I’d met somebody else. Seems he was so relieved that I wasn’t, he blurted oot the fantastically romantic proposal: “Well, I suppose we better get married.” How enchanting does it get, girls?
The sooner the better, as far as this quine – on Cloud Nine – was concerned.
Plan was to break the news to his parents when we drove down to their home in Ayrshire on Christmas morning, then get the ring from his uncle, a jewellery salesman down there.
Only my mum and dad were told. Come the 24th, oot for a drink with two other couples, at 10pm closing we invited them back to his Wallfield Crescent flat – into which I’d recently moved (harlot!) – for a snack before heading to the Watchnight Service at St Nicholas Church.
Aware time was short, I set aboot settin’ oot wine, coffee, biscuits, cheese and cake, while my soon-to-be-fiance just sat … and chatted.
It wasn’t so much a holy Silent Night as silent fury
Getting more stressed as I dished oot the food at speed, it wasn’t so much a holy Silent Night as silent fury.
When oor guests left and we rushed to get into the car to head for the Mither Kirk, it a’ came oot in a mighty explosion of anger.
Why hadn’t he lifted a finger to help me? You get the drift? His reaction? Not-so-silent fury. He’d no idea I was stressed aboot the food.
Why hadn’t I simply asked him to help? Typical female/male dilemma. She thinks he should have seen what he was blind to.
Just to cap our planned superb Christmas Eve which turned into a bitter disaster, when we arrived in Union Street, the gates to the kirk were locked to any more incomers.
Back to the car, me in sorrowful, frustrated floods, him still deeply annoyed.
Wait for it … revealed he thought the engagement was a mistake. Instead of taking me back to his flat, he dropped me at mum and dad’s, five minutes away in Watson Street. Happy f – forget it – Christmas.
Spik aboot inconsolable.
However, mum was made of sterner stuff. Told me to get back to Wallfield, talk things over or at least get my claes. So there was Mo, sobbin’ aroon Rosemount in the early oors of Christmas Day, broken-hairted.
Fit happened? I suspect he took pity on my tear-stained phizzog.
Yes, he agreed we’d drive four hoors doon to Irvine in the morning, but he wisnae sure if he’d announce oor engagement. Agony.
Readers, can you imagine the state of my swollen een when I got up at 8am after a sleepless, touch-free night?
Sittin doon to oor turkey in Irvine aboot 4pm, I’d still nae idea whether I was a bride-to-be or not. As his mum pit oot the soup, he rushed to the lavvie. Came back – a bittie green aboot the gills – to declare : “Sorry, I’ve just been sick. That’s probaby because I have to tell you all that me and Moreen are getting engaged.”
Quines, how good does it get?
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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