Fit a load a scorchers!
Day efter day, harrumphin’ tae masellie: ‘Tsaffa hate. Ower-puggled to even ging oot for a wee dander; afeart I’d melt in the middle o’ the Lang Stracht, like the Wicked Witch o’ the West. This heatwave has deffo been a one-off.
Normally, we enjoy maybe three days of fine weather, and celebrate: “That’s oor summer!” But this year’s Indian summer has never been seen in my lifetime. So mony days o’ huge temperatures into the 20s. When most of oor barbecues ower the years ended in rushing inside oot o’ the rain, this month it’s been too bakin’ to bake a tattie.
Now I’m nae exactly an eco-warrior, although I’ve given up my car and hinna flown for yonks, but I’m beginning to think this climate change stuff is deffo a goer.
Sadly, I canna recall the famous 1976 Aiberdeen heatwave, because my then sun-worshipper hubby – pee-ed off with many summers of rotten weather at home – booked us a week in Corfu in July. Big mistake. That’s when we discovered – from arriving bronzed Aberdonians – it was hotter in Garthdee than Greece. Man, was he wild. Niver booked a summer costa again.
I still think fit we’ve been experiencing recently is a’ thanks to cars, planes and farty coos. I kint it was really hot when my sun-worshipping quine couldnae sit ootside, even under the umbrella. I pitied the toots, stragglin’ back to me fae school, draggin’ their brand new jumpers behind them. Me? Fit a puggled disaster zone, in spite of fans, including my prehistoric circular fan.
Last year, I invested in fit they ca’ a “tower” fan: long and thin. So, for the last coupla weeks, I’ve been shufflin’ between living room and kitchen, black fan in hand, nightie on early, like some sort of Miss Havisham apparition, tryin’ to cool aff.
Yet, how in the name o’ the wee man, on Sunday, did it come into my napper to go to a recipe for spicy butternut squash and carrot soup? With chilli flakes? On such a sodding hot day? Had to position the tower fan on my work surface, inches fae my sweatin’, choppin’, fevered brow. Result? Superb soup. Except… ‘tsaffa hate!
Congratulations to the truly caring Cowdray Club
A story in Monday’s EE made me want to stand up and cheer. The one about an Aberdeen care home chalking up five “very good” ratings after a surprise visit by the Care Inspectorate, with staff praised for helping residents “get the most out of life”. Step forward and take a bow, the employees of The Cowdray Club on Fonthill Road.
All too often, these reports of properties are shockingly awful, with residents not properly cared for, let alone amused, entertained – and happy. I have to admit, I was so traumatised by what my mum and dad suffered at the end of their lives – in several different “care” homes – I couldn’t bear to write about it. Still can’t. I am guilty of not being a whistleblower. Only a few years ago, when my uncle went into care, I discovered nothing had changed. Nothing improved.
Choosing the right place for the ones you love is a nightmare
That’s why I am so overwhelmed about the inspectors’ description of The Cowdray Club. Here’s my edit: “wishes and aspirations enabled”, like walking, enjoying a pint, outings, celebration days, to which all relatives invited, and “person-centred”. And, crucially, “compassionate staff”. What higher praise could a care home get?
Of course, there are others as good as the Cowdray, but not enough. Choosing the right place for the ones you love is a nightmare. Unfortunately, you only know what the home is really like after the move.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970