I’d been looking forward to – and simultaneously dreading – last weekend’s family “treat” for a whilie.
Couldna wait to see Peter Kay at Glasgow’s Hydro, but in a panic about sharing a room with my son-in-law’s mum. You see, I’m the room-sharer from hell.
A devout insomniac, my nocturnal routine is reading, then off light, Facebook (and onything else I can find surfing my mobile), then LBC radio through until morning. If I do happen to fa’ asleep, I suspect I snore to beat the band.
Feeling for my peer roommate, I set aboot plans to alleviate her discomfort from this hyperactive wifie of the bedchamber. Amazoned one of those daft headlights to read my book without disturbing her, albeit lookin’ like a miner at the coalface. And my loon ordered me a pair of headphones to plug into my phone to listen to the radio.
In the Hydro, there was almost an audible intake of breath from the audience when we saw how much weight Peter Kay had lost. However, he was as hilarious as ever.
In high spirits, we downed a few more drinks in the city centre. Then, as the youngsters went on to wilder things, me and my roommate headed back to the hotel, munching fish suppers. Fit class.
She confided she was also a bit of an insomniac. At least maybe I wouldnae wake her up.
Delved into my baggie for the reading headlight. D’oh. Forgotten it. Plan A doon the tubes. Plan B, my new headphones by my bed in readiness for radio switch-on. In darkness, I communed with my mobile, every so often getting up for a tiddle and trying to sleep.
The girls of room 401 were wide awake
Come 4am-ish, wide awake, I reckoned I’d listen to LBC. Plugged in earphones, stuck the thingies in my lugs, switched on and… sod all through the ‘phones, but a huge blast of a mannie’s voice into the yonder. My peer roommate almost cannoned oot o’ her scratcher in surprise.
I scraiked: “I’m sorry. The earphones are nae workin’!” – while frantically swipin’ and pressin’ the screen to make the booming voice stop.
Later, we met up with the rest of the family. My quine confronted me. ‘How come you called me at 4.20am?’
Sadly, in my efforts to silence the the phone, up comes my quine’s number, the red button and… please, God, no… “Calling”. A panic of swipin’ and ficherin’. Managed to text her: “That was a mistake! SOOO sorry!”
By then, we girls of room 401 were wide awake. I even discovered a switch on my earphones which made them work. Halleflamingloojah! Unfortunately, we couldnae watch the coronation because neither o’ us could work the telly.
Later, we met up with the rest of the family. My quine confronted me. “How come you called me at 4.20am?” I stuttered: “Just a mistake.” Probes on she: “And what about the three-minute voicemail that did nothing but heave and sigh and snotter?” Pass.
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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