Moreen Simpson: Domestic bliss when beloved cleaner returned was short lived

On Tuesday, I was in Seventh Heaven. After 14 long weeks of lockdown isolation from my greatest luxury, it was returned to me today.

“It” is actually  “she” – Carole, the affa fine, ever immaculately turned-oot wifie who cleans my hoosie for two hours every fortnight.

I know, I’m a lazy-lout of a craiter for not doing it masellie. But I’ve been “hands-free” of domestic duties thanks to various biddies for nigh on 30 years, so I’m far too decrepit to suddenly pick up a dustpan and brush (even if I knew where they were.)

I was fair panicked when I realised I’d have to temporarily part company with her when the pandemic struck. But, like so many others, I reckoned we’d all be back to normal in maybe a month – and I’d just guddle awa’.

How wrong we were. As the weeks went by, dust-on-dust, I realised I wouldn’t get away with just lavvie and kitchen dichts.

Sweat hailed aff me the day I discovered my vacuum cleaner (Carole brings her own) was more spewy-ootie than sooky-uppie. A pokie roon its innards revealed the roller caught fast in a thick and almost impenetrable web of hairs and threads dating back to, presumably, the year dot. Gads.

In desperation, I even went on to Amazon to buy a new machine, but turns oot my model is now extinct and all those bag-less efforts look far too complicated for me to work… so I just gave the trapped roller laldie with the scissors.

I damnt-near kissed Carole when she arrived at the door, as spit-spat as Mary Poppins, with her hoover, dusters and cleaning stuffies. (Likes to use all her own. Disnae trust mine?)

Except, like most older folkies, we’re still distancing assiduously. We spoke about being appalled at the events in Aberdeen last weekend, especially the crammed queues of youngsters waiting to get into places like Soul Bar.

Cheers to South Aberdeen MP Stephen Flynn for saying he was scunnered – exactly the right word – by the wreckless, dangerous on-goings. Like Nicola Sturgeon, I wanted to cry.

All the weeks of warnings falling on deliberately deaf ears. And after the north-east escaped the worst of Covid-19 compared to other parts of Scotland, it was shocking and frightening to learn about the cluster of cases linked to the Hawthorn Bar and their many contacts.

The fact the pub appeared to have stuck by all the health precautions raised serious questions about whether the guidelines are actually fit-for-purpose, or whether hundreds of other drinking and eating places could also be at risk.

Then came the bombshell. On Wednesday, Ms Sturgeon announced Aberdeen was back into lockdown. Quite right too. It meant my quine’s caravan weekend with family and friends to glorious Lossie was verboten. Toots in floods. And their mum. But had to be done.

With children going back to school next week, our protection against this terrible infection is absolutely paramount. No one wants another, economically catastrophic national lockdown, but if a partial one is what it takes, so be it.

And obviously a local one was needed to rein in the feel gypes in Aberdeen – the “I don’t give a damn” oafs who are threatening all our lives.

Put your feet up by the Dee Yer Majesty

Dear Mrs Birse, (as I know Yer Majesty likes to be known when she’s up-by on Deeside. I believe that’s the name you used when you entered your delish scones in the local WRI competitions.)

A warm welcome to you and Phil back to Balmoral for your summer holiday (Just dodged the lockdown.)

Here’s hoping it doesn’t keep dingin’ doon, as when you arrived.

My but yer hubby is deein’ well for 99. In spite o’ health problems, he jist keeps kneipin’ on. And you’re a walkin ’miracle – always so glam, never a hair oot o’ place. I often wonder if you ever have days when you just slouch aroon the palace in elasticated troosers and a baggy top. Me too!

Mind you, it canna be easy for you now Phil has taken a back seat and you’ve been faced with all these crises over the last year. Ticky-bets you’re lookin’ forward to a few trouble-free weeks.

You must be frantic aboot the proper pickle yer favourite loon Andy seems to have got into. And there’s not a thing all your privilege and wealth can do aboot it.

As for Harry and Meghan. Their self-enforced exile must also be a heart-breaker for you, especially never seeing bonnie wee Erchie.

But listen, Liz, you’ve tried yer best. Ticky-bets one day Harry at least will see sense and come back to the royal fold.

Meanwhile, enjoy the company of the rest of your family. You can be well prood o’ your Anne, who came across as a right fine craiter in that documentary last week.

So here’s to a relaxing, stress-free time at the castle, Ma’am. And here’s hopin’ you get yer EE home-delivered, coz it aye maks a good read – nae royal scandal!

Can’t figure out Adele

Am I the only one who’s not altogether a fan of supestar Adele’s new look?

Not so much slimmed down as actually shrunk by seven stone at her home in California. She’s also dumped the straighteners and let her curly hair grow long and free.

Trouble is, she looks absolutely nothing like the girl-next-door, albeit slightly chubby, singer we all fell in love with.

Is she now too thin? Too curly? Too LA? Do we yearn for a return of the London lass with hair as big as her dresses?

Let’s just hope her transformation hasn’t taken anything away from that fantastic voice.