Burt Bacharach’s sad death just before Valentine’s Day seemed poignant, considering his skill when it came to love songs, writes Moreen Simpson.
Oh, fit an excitement. Valentine’s Day. Aye, that would be right.
I just worked out, I dinna think I’ve had one of those romantic cards since last century. Aww, shamies for the quinie.
Not that ony I did get were a’ that special, except that one in 1959, when I was 11 – a real heart-stopper, plastered with verses (nothin’ dirty) from a mystery loon I eventually worked oot had asked me up to the Grand Old Duke of York at the Rutherford Church Christmas party (a racy affair) and was now our paper boy.
So, I fell head ower heels, aye tryin’ to “accidentally” come face to face on the darkened tenement stairs when he was delivering the EEs. Super-careful never to be exiting one of the cludgies – dear Lord, can you imagine?
We’d snigger and giggle awa’ at each other, yet never a word was said. For months. In fact, never. I think I’m still slightly in love with him. Then again, maybe he didn’t send that Valentine…
As a glaikit reporter in the huge, now sadly bulldozed, newsroom at Mastrick, we hackettes were on tenterhooks the whole of February 14 to see if and when the postie mannie would appear with a huge bouquet of flowers, and for whom. Ower the years, mine never came. Awww. Gie me a bosie.
Neither of my hubbies was Valentine’s-Day sentient. I’d to telegraph well ahead of time, and issue instructions on something lovey-dovey.
From The Look of Love to I’ll Never Fall in Love Again
Sometimes it didn’t work. Like the time the second one blanked on all he’d promised – expensive, candlelit meal and tickets to the theatre. Only as I was asking him to zip up my glam new dress, he finally ‘fessed up.
But, no problemmo, the bold loon would phone and book right then. On a Valentine’s Saturday? Nae chunce.
Dear readers, I ended up in all my finery at a table at the front of The Dolphin chipper on Chapel Street, savouring my amorous haddock supper while being surveyed by every diverted passer-by. The mannie even lit us an atmospheric red candle.
Instead of the theatre? Ower to the Odeon for dreamy film… The Full Monty. Ken ‘is? It was one of my best-ever Valentine’s.
Yet, amour has been high on my mind this week, with the death of the composer for lovers, Burt Bacharach. If you go spewy-lewy easily, look away now. I actually texted my kids: “He wrote the musical soundtrack to my romance with your dad.” Needless to say, zilch response from them was deafening.
From the moment we met in 1971, the composer’s music (and the impassioned lyrics of Hal David) reflected our habitual on-off-oning – from The Look of Love to I’ll Never Fall in Love Again. My distinctly unromantic man even surprised me with a tape he’d prepared of Bacharach love songs when we drove off on a special holiday. And, get this, the older Burt and my mannie got, the more they looked like each other.
It wasn’t until this week that I discovered my adored composer wrote my mum’s favourite song, Magic Moments. Spooky.
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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