It really was A Tale Of Two Dippies.
A couple of wifies in their 70s, looking forward to a nattery lunch with another wrinklie pal at The Four Mile, Kingswells – far we’re mair used to claikin’ ower their delish sausage rolls at a funeral tea.
For privacy protection (she’s black-affronted) I’ll call her N: the only one of us who still drives, but who’s beginning to think about giving up in a couple of years, when she’s 80.
In a recently bought, brand new motor, she’s constantly complaining about high-tech devices she hasn’t the foggiest how to operate, harrumphing: “If only cars were as simple as they used to be.”
Plan was for her to pick me up, then on for our mate. I waited at my gate so she wouldn’t have to stop long or get out. My entrance is a botheration because of zigzag lines, and ye never ken fan some zealot of a warden will materialise.
She stopped on the lines opposite. I dashed across to loup in but, before I reached her, she was oot the car, suggesting I sit in the back because oor pal has a sair leg. She went to open the back door, but it was locked.
Suddenly, she let oot this noise like a Hammer Horror howl: “Oh, Mo! I’ve locked mysel’ oot. I knew this was gan tae happen. Closed the driver’s door and the key still in ignition. Bloomin’ high-tech cars!”
So, as she panicked, I did fit a’ trusty amigos would have done – panicked just as much. Stranded on zigzags – oh mummy, daddy – they’ll ca’ the plods.
Did she have a spare key at home? Yes, but nae in the hoose. In her handbag… in the car. Helpful.
Where did she buy it? The garage would maybe get her in. Somewhere on the Lang Stracht. Arnold Clark? Maybe, maybe not. Great stuff.
Open sesame, easy-peasy
Into my hoosie to phone her quine, not forgetting oor waiting mate. Her mobile in car, she couldna mind her daughter’s number. Sod’s law, I didn’t hae it in my phone, so phoned my quine, who’s one of her bosoms.
I suspect I sounded totally hysterical because I was first instructed to calm doon and speak slowly. Told the terrible tale.
Says my girl: “Has she checked if the boot is open? Not that I imagine either of you could clamber through.” Did I detect a titter in her ruddy voice? Oh, ha-flamin’-ha.
It never occurred to us to actually check the driver’s door. D’oh
“In fact, has she checked the driver’s door is definitely locked?”
N was ootside as fast as Bernie’s bolt fae Bullseye. Boot locked. Dammit.
Driver’s door? Open sesame, easy-peasy, nae problemo, nae locked-o.
That’s when we started laughing. Not only did we both jump to the conclusion that this horrible mod-con car had locked her oot, it never occurred to us to actually check the driver’s door. D’oh.
We snorted a’ the wye to Kingswells and through the meal. In fact, the three of us agreed it was our most enjoyable lunch in years. Must do it all again. (If oor blood pressure permits.)
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970
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