Clean forgotten the Christmas present from my loon and his wife of a meal at a swunkie restaurant in St Andrews (cryin’ oot for an apostrophe).
Booked into an Airbnb, he hoped I hadn’t lost the food voucher. Sez me: “Of course not,” while my hairtie sank. Nae memory. I panic-rummaged through various likely hidie-holes, finally locating the blighter where I then recalled plunkin’ it so I wouldn’t – Sod’s law – forget.
Why did I not go to St Andrew’s University?
Shame on me, seldom have I visited the ancient toon, but when we strolled through the charming cobbled streets and historic buildings, buzzin’ with students, the thought hit me like a thunderbolt: why on earth didn’t I opt to go there to university? What a delight to totter through the hallowed portals and – now, here’s the jackpot – marry a filthy-rich young buck.
Sadly, in 1965-66, we feel-gype maidens thought we were lucky to have a university where we lived. Not a soul – not least the school – suggested expanding our horizons to somewhere else. Only when we visited our pal in Glasgow, where she’d to study speech and drama, did we realise the fun, the freedom (ye ken fit I mean) on which we were missing oot.
Fit really brought a blush to oor pan-sticked faces… She flat-shared wi’ a loon! (Now famous as actor Ian McDiarmid of Star Wars fame.)
My grumblins aboot having gone to the wrong uni were swiftly silenced by my son declaring he wouldn’t exist if I’d St Andrewsed. Back o’ the net, sunshine.
The meal at the all-glass Seafood Ristorante was sumptuous. Tatties ower the side to my diet. I’d eaten to so much, I could barely mak it onto the extra high bed in the B&B, clambering up and on, pechin’ like I was in the final stages of scalin’ Everest.
Everything but the kitchen sink – and the bedspread
My ample embonpoints were brought to mind again when we were leaving. I asked my daughter-in-law to check my room to make sure I hidnae left onything.
She trachles back saying: “All clear, apart from this.” I looked. Fit the? That’s when I damnt near tiddled masellie. The wee craiter was virtually invisible under this humongous, beige, cable-knit effort, which I recognised as the cover for the king-sized bed.
I scraiked: “That’s the bedspread! Why would I want that?” Sez the peer thing, engulfed, muffled and confused: “Sorry. I thought this was your woollen coat – a long woollen coat.”
Through heaving laughter, I snorted: “It’s big enough to cover four fat wifies, let alone one. My diet’s deffo nae workin!” while musin’ to masellie – “Michty, I must look a whole lot bigger than I think.”
Colossal cable knit back on its bed, thoughts of the diet didn’t stop me gorging on a delish full Scottish in the wonderful Balgove Larder farm shop. Then bought punnets of the biggest, reddest, juiciest, sweetest strawberries I’ve ever tasted. Why can’t supermarkets offer such prime fare?
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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