Fingers crossed, life is slowly getting back to normal.
Call from my hairdresser with an appointment. Praise be. Soo desperately needed. By that time, my sorely faded, straggly locks will dootless be an exact match for my expansive belt of white roots.
Big decision; should I give up on the dye pot and go Mary Berry white-o? By the look of it, her tresses are as thin and lifeless as mine. Ticky-bets she uses as much lacquer on her heid as cornflour in her recipes. Sadly, I don’t have an army of stylists hingin’ aboot my kitchen ready to sort a stray tendril when I’m in the middle of layerin’ a lasagna.
Looking back at lockdown, cooking has been my salvation. Even though – and I freely admit it – I’m probably one of the world’s worst cooks.
Growing up in a teeny tenement garret in Watson Street, we’d no kitchen, just a sink, hot water “geyser” and mini-cooker (two rings above a grill). My favourite tea was chipper chips, corned beef and beetroot. Mum bought the chips on her way home from work at Archibalds, from the chipper at the bottom of Short Loanings (onybody wi’ ony memories o’ the name?)
Her go-to for the corned beef was Low’s at Hoburn Junction. We reckon she missed the Fray Bentos typhoid tin by a coupla slices.
Being kitchenless couldn’t stop her from creating feasts. When you can rustle up pot-roasts, meat roll or Eve’s pudding on two wee rings, fa needs an oven? Not having followed at her bended knee, I was Wide-Eyed in Wallfield as a newlywed. Me clueless; him… just like most of the other ‘hims’ of the time, ie: Cook? Moi? In fact, I was ower-the-moon being a new wife and home-maker, even though oor flat was even teeny-tinier than Watson Street. I kid you not, double bed up a ladder behind the galley kitchen. But oh was I desperate to be the perfect wife, in spite of my idol, Germaine Greer, urging me to burn my bra (barely needed one) and shake off domestic shackles.
I’d dash home from work to my galley and set about some funcy recipe I’d studied the night before. I reckon that’s when my cooking reached its peak; on Masterchef come warnings about souffles being super-tricky.
Back then, I could dash off a smoked haddock triumph in 15 easy minutes. Perchance I was still a wee bittie of a domestic goddess once the kids came along, when I’d batch-cook for the five thousand and serve up superb suppers and puds every teatime.
These lockdown days, I’ve been trying to woo my fussy-eating grand-toots with my creations. Hit and miss.
But deffo nothing better that serving up Mo’s special chicken pasta and getting the critical review: “Nana. We don’t like it. We luuuv it!”
Life these days doesn’t get much better!
The truth of Meghan’s marriage mystery
At last comes the truth. After the marriage certificate of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex has been made public, seems that what Meghan told Oprah (and the rest of the world) is a load of tosh.
No, they weren’t actually married three days before the worldwide broadcast at Windsor Castle, with just the Archbishop of Canterbury in their Kensington Palace “backyard”. Pretty shocking. So many questions. How come Harry – while feeding his chucks – happily went along with the story? Makes him look a right cluck. And how come the Bish didn’t set the world straight?
Meanwhile, Hazzer had got himsellie a jobbie. He’s to become “chief impact officer” at the mental health company BetterUp. Okay-dokey, what will he do? Here’s him: “My goal is to lift up critical dialogues around mental health, build supportive and compassionate communities and foster an environment for honest and vulnerable conversations.” Scyooze me? Gobbledygook.
It is one of the scandals of our nation that those with mental health issues are not getting the care and treatment they so desperately need.
If only our prince, who has suffered such problems, had remained in this country and helped drive on, even spearheaded, radical improvements, instead of going for gold and some hippy-dippy company thousands of miles away.
Loss of john lewis comes as a shock
Shocking news – John Lewis to close in Aberdeen. Particularly devastating for the 265 people losing their jobs. My favourite all-time shop. How could they do it? The stores in Edinburgh and Glasgow are surviving.
I’m sure Aberdeen would have been spared if the oil industry still had any future in the north-east. At least I can still order online. And finally that carbuncle of a building might be demolished. Too long a blot on our landscape. But to make way for what?
This article originally appeared on the Evening Express website. For more information, read about our new combined website.
