This year’s Aberdeen Trades Fortnight must have been a record-breaker.
I’d thought the traditional holiday during the second two weeks in July had almost died out.
In its heyday, when thousands of workers got the same time off, the beach and parks would be heavin’. There’d be more Doric-spik on the Costas than onything remotely Spanish: “Gees a poke a’ chips and a bottle o’ Sammygill.”
Usually we joke Trades is the wettest two weeks of the year. This time, it was the bestest
But I’m delighted to say The Trades is still kneipin’ on in many smaller companies.
The bide-at-hames who, because of Covid, must have been in the vast majority this year, were blessed with an almost non-stop series of scorchers. Usually we joke Trades is the wettest two weeks of the year. This time, it was the bestest.
Oh, the joy of de-stressing in the sun without the threat of black clouds; no-hassle barbecues or buffets in the garden. Under a parasol to cool off or taes dunked in the kids’ paddling pool. The wonderful sound of hysterically giggly children (sorry neighbours). What more could an al’ body want?
A perfect, stress-free Trades summer day
So it came to pass last week, after I’d refereed a game of football between the toots and their parents with their birthday goalposts, everyone was plootered. The back of 7pm, tired but affa happy, I headed into the hoose to start shooshin’ them hameski. I love ‘em, to bits – but enough is enough. Except… un probleme avec les French doors. They wouldna open. Locked? Impossible!
This was the first time in the 17 years I’d been in my hoosie the French window had locked from the outside
Regular readers know I’m adept at getting locked oot. Either I’ve forgotten my key or because of that dodgy front door lock, which froze me oot whenever it fancied.
To my aid have come emergency (and affa pricey) locksmiths, and latterly my hugely talented neighbour, who can remove a glass panel from my side door with suspicious skill. However, this was the first time in the 17 years I’d been in my hoosie the French window had locked from the outside.
A speedy and, yes, accusatory, investigation revealed my son-in-law had, mystifyingly, lifted the outside handle before closing it. Hey presto, a’body shut-ootski. My quine’s keys to the front door? At the front door, inside. My housebreaking neighbour? In Benidorm, sod him.
Languidly, my quine moaned we’d have to wait until her brother came in from his place in Culter with the only other spare key. Not-so-languidly, I broke the news he was on a short break – in Aberlour, 60 flaming miles hence. Panic, panic, panic. Fit tae dee?
Daddy spotted the wee slat at the top of my bathroom window was open. Could maybe my so-slender granddaughter sidle through, with a humph-up from him? She tried. She failed. She was obviously a bittie feart.
Dad suggested her wee bro have a go; three years younger, so littler. He was game, but changed his mind half-way up.
Visions of mannies breaking doon doors, when my determined granddaughter stood up to the mark once more. Dad hoiked her up, she slinked over and through. Those gymnastics lessons haven’t half paid off! My heroine opened up and released us.
The end of a perfect, stress-free Trades summer day.
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