From parcels to pizzas, it feels like Moreen Simpson has had everything mistakenly delivered to her door over the years.
Just before Christmas, a wifie came a’knockin’ the back of 5pm, and declared, with a bonnie smile: “Let’s get you settled in for the night.” With much bonhomie, I responded: “That’s too kind of you, but it’s a bittie early for me.”
She apologised, we spotted the address was wrong, and I set her on her way to bed the right wifie.
Second verse, similar to the first, the other evening. A ring at the bell around 9pm. A bit nervous, I tottered to the door and scraiked, bonhomie-less: “Fa’ is it?” Came the chirpy reply: “Pizza man.” Fit the…?
I opened to discover a cheerful wee cove balancing four boxes of what looked to be extra-large eens. The delish aroma of pepperoni assailed my joyous schnozzle. Soo sorry, wrong spy. I set him on his way to the right address.
You see, fate would have it that my street sounds almost identical to another one, give or take a “hill” for a “field”, which is clear across the other side of town, off King Street.
I was only a few weeks into this hoosie when I discovered the endless scope for errors. It just needs someone to mishear or misread a word, then what’s due for me ends up miles awa’, and vice versa.
Taxis are the worst. They arrive at my door at a’ hours, tootin’ when I dinna appear. I’ve to trek oot and tell them their fare is waiting… 15 minutes hence. Disnae aye ging doon well.
Then there’s the cabs I book, turn up bang on time… across there! Most disastrously, when I was giving the opening speech at an awards do – the missing driver obviously gave up the will to live and never turned up ava. I was 50 minutes, three gnawed fingernails and a fallolloped hairstyle late.
The taxi company I use now has the easily mistakable address on my file, and I always bellow it oot ower the phone, like I’m spikkin’ to a foreigner.
A case of mistaken identity
Oh, but the duff deliveries; like the surprise arrival of two gadgies less than chuffed to discover the king-sized double bed they’d just happily humphed oot their Argos van had to be humphed right back on again.
Yet, by far the most harrowing experience of my “doppelganger” address came just after I retired.
Could I ever show my face in the newsagent’s again? Or spik to my neighbours?
My loon phoned early with the fateful words: “Are you sitting down?” He was calling about a story on the front page of The P&J, about a woman in Sheriff Court the day before for running, er… a house of ill repute. Cops had spotted various bods entering and leaving.
So? Fit had that tae dee with me? He comes: “Mum, it’s your house number and your street. The reporter or the police must have got it wrong. It should be that road off King Street.” Dear Lord. Could I ever show my face in the newsagent’s again? Or spik to my neighbours?
I keeked ootside, convinced passers-by were gappin’ at my hoosie, horrified. Then the editor of The P&J was on the phone. Fulsome apologies (although I could detect a giggle at the back of his ruddy throat) and the promise of a front-page apology the next day. Natch, the hilarious news went viral roon the Journals. Try to imagine the utterly hilarious emails and texts “Madam Simpson” received.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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