Why in the name would I want to join Facebook and plaster my life a’ ower fit they ca’ social medja, I demanded of my quine when she suggested it a pucklie years ago.
Ah, but, I hear you scraik, ye’ve bin spewin’ oot yer belly-rumblins in the EE for donkeys. Too true.
Various persuasive bods eventually ground me doon and, almost the second I first Facebooked, I was gobsmacked by the number of folkies who requested my friendship – gadgies I hadn’t heard from in yonks, a’ ower the world, yet suddenly just a tap of a key away. Spik aboot fair tricket.
Facebook allows you to reconnect
I’ve been an avid FBer ever since. One of the best things is being able to reconnect with Aberdeen Journals colleagues from down the years, all in little bundles of biddies with the same wonderful memories from various different decades, and dramatically different ways of operating.
For example, in the early 1970s, when editorial numbers were eye-wateringly huge, reporters had an awesome 90-minute lunch break, usually spent on a three-courser in the Cocket Hat. If we were in town at the court or council, we could charge expenses! Fit a life.
Saturdays were quiet – just as if there’d be news at the weekend – and one posho reporter who lived on an estate used to bring in his Friday evening “kill” – ducks, pheasants, pigeons – to pluck at his desk. Or else he’d lug in a last to mend the family sheen. We laugh about it with him on FB now – and he’s still as daft.
Just last week, wonderful Facebook put me in touch with one of my long-lost, dear pals. In a group about the old days in Aberdeen, someone had posted a photo of the Palace Ballroom, attracting more than 500 comments. Keen to revive my own precious memories, I started tapping through them.
Looking back on lots of laughs together
Suddenly, I spotted the name of a quine I used to know so well. Could it be her? I into the name search – yes, it was, indeed, the very same. My mum, Kathleen, and hers, Millie, had been besties since they were teenagers in the 1920s and, incredibly, died within a week of each other when they were 89.
They both had the same hallyrakit sense of humour, which Pat and I inherited. Everything we did together ended in tiddle-inducing hysterics. So, I contacted her.
Now living near Dundee, she messaged me back, remembering a hilarious holiday in the 1960s we spent at Tomidhu caravan park, roon fae Crathie Kirk. Only we weren’t in a caravan, but a converted single-decker bussie, Millie’s wee Morris Minor weighed doon wi’ cases, groceries, bikes and a’ o’ us.
In her message, Pat recalled how, during a meal, instead of “winklepickers” (as in pointy-taed shoes) I’d said “winklepuckers”. Sez she: “You were giggling so much, you started snortin’ baked beans doon yer nose.” I replied: “You’re soo wrong. It wisnae beans comin’ doon down my schnozzle, it was spaghetti!” I can tell our imminent lunch is going to be a bladder-tester.
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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