After my gory tongue story last week, I’m on a New Year high.
All thanks to my quine, who kint I was struggling back in September, depressed and feart about my various ailments. When she suggested a holiday, I scraiked I couldna ging ony further than the chemist up the road.
I deffo didnae funcy the idea – a’ that packin’? Nae suitable claes? My wee lamb then painted an affa tempting picture of us gan awa’ athegither, complete with her hubby and two toots – all of whom make me happy.
Fit aboot a week at Hogmanay? “Too cal’!” I scraiked. Not mid-20s Tenerife. “Too far!” protested I, who’s recently decided she’s claustrophobic aboot flying. Here’s her: “I’ll get you an aisle seat!”
After mony sleepless nights, when I finally plucked up the “go for it”, my quine was back on the phone within 15 minutes, a’thing done and dusted. Flight full from Aberdeen on December 27 (maybe just as well – we’ve since heard it was a bit of an up-and-downer). Nothing for it but trek for an overnighter in Prestwick, then airport check-in at 4am on Hogmanay.
During the weeks running up to D-Day, I kept fretting: was I the ultimate feel gype? Visions of Arctic roads and runways.
We did hit affa snow between Perth and Stirling, but oor hotel was perfect, lovely meal, few winks o’ sleep then oot. Airport breakfast and onto the plane. Third row, aisle seat. Perfect. Four and a half hours.
Once landed, me and my breathless lungs were panickin’ about long walks and waits. But there was only a wee trot to customs, where I waved my stickie aboot a bittie and we were fast-forwarded past the queues.
Oot-scoot to taxi my quine had ordered to hotel. Nae queue at reception. Ken ‘is, we were doon and soakin’ the sun at a poolside snack bar by 12.30pm.
A long-standing Hogmanay harrumpher, it’s been mony years since I was oot and aboot celebrating New Year. Suddenly, amid the sunshine and the bosom o’ my family, I was rarin’ to go.
Delish meal, into the Hogmanay show. All ages of folk and music. Gift baggies of whistles, pipes, Happy New Year headbands. A’thing al’ Misery Mo would normally loathe, but she loved. Excitement as the time ticked by.
Around 11.45pm, a mannie sitting beside us declared there was a huge fireworks display outside, instructing us to head up to the eighth floor. Now, our hotel was huge: an older one repeatedly extended, I suspect. There were blocks of rooms on all sides. Lifts here, there and a’wye.
Missed the whole jing-bang. But what a laugh. How we hugged. My best Hogmanay ever
Grabbing oor drinks, we headed upski – first on one lift that didnae go to the top, just a dark corridor. Then another. And another. Me pechin’.
Readers, on my hugely exciting Hogmanay, we never made it onywye near the fireworks, let alone other revellers. We were totally lost.
As the bells chimed, it was just the five of us, too low to see the spectacular squibs, although we heard the banging and spotted the occasional bonnie light above the building. Missed the whole jing-bang. But what a laugh. How we hugged. My best Hogmanay ever.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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