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Moreen Simpson: There’s nae point crying over a bag of spilt peas

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You know when you look forward to something for so long, then it all goes a taddie tatties-ower-the-side?

So it was with me earlier this week after ages on the excited countdown to my first lunch with pals.

Booked a whilie ago lest we struggled to get a table at our regular haunt, the Dutch Mill, on one of the first days eatooteries were unlocked. We weren’t that keen on the al fresco bittie, but if we didn’t want to miss oot on quaffing oor vino plonko (just as if!) ootside it had to be. Hopefully close to a heater, because it may be May, but it’s still Baltic.

Booked for noon, bussie at 10-to, I planned a longish lie then plenty time to get masellie tarted up for the first time in yonks, having decided the night before what to wear. Organised or fit?

All went well until I was doing my make-up. Now my tubie o’ foundation is running low, so I have to shake it upside down before I squeeze. I must have done it harder than usual because I sure was shook when I squeezed and a flaming fountain of foundation spurted ootski and whang on to the bosom of my bonnie black top. Shave a bloomin’ bandy. I tried dichtin’ off the the Soft Beige dod. Nope. It remained screamingly visible. Like I’d splootered custard. Nothing for it but a quick (time now seemed to be racing) change from all-black to navy.

Gettin’ on to 11.30am, hair still nae right, when my mobile rang. Ye Gods, get lost. A mate who thought she was calling her daughter. Me; “Sorry, this is Moreen.” Her “So sorry. I keep pressing the wrong button. How are you More …” Me: “I have to catch a bus … bye.” Apologies Margaret.

Five minutes to go before the bus across the road. Just time to double-check I’ve enough split peas to make pea and ham soup when I come back. Reached up to my packed-to-the-gunnels cupboard of stock cubes, gravy tins, pasta and pulses. Great stuff. Two half-opened packets of split peas with those self-sealing tabs. Back into the cupboard they went. Dis-as-ter. They promptly tumbled oot again, splat on to the work-surface, stupid self-seals self un-ruddy-sealed and – sclitter-sclatter – minute dried green half-moons a’wye. Piles on the work surface; the entire floor emerald, including tiny corners because they bounce like Tiddly-Wink counters. And man, was I tiddlin’ at the shock/horror of it all.

Nothing for it but to leave the gubbins and catch my bussie. In fact, we’d an affa fine lunch, although I’m glad I wore my boots. Now true confessions. Back home, I doon on hands and knees to sweep up the peas. To the bin? Sssh, no. Into a pan of boiling water and strained. Then again. And the best pea ’n ham soup in years!

Duff ending for Line of Duty finale

Like other viewers, I was totally teed-off by that series finale of Line Of Duty. When the long-sought leader of the crooked cops turned out to be that duffer just doon the hall. Caught because be spelled definitely with an a.

And as for the evidence against so many murderers – knives, DNA, fingerprints – all found in one box, we’re nae believin’ that.

I’m indignant because I invested 10 years of my life following the travails of the bent-cop-busters – no mean feat since so much of the dialogue was at 100mph, mumbled and heavy with unintelligible abbreviations. Without the Pause and Rewind buttons on my remote, I’d have given up after the first episode in 2012. And so gory; half the time I’d no clue who’d been stabbed/shot etc because I couldna look. I’d constantly Google what had happened before because I’d lost track of who was dead/alive, bad/good.

Come that huge anti-climax on Sunday, the only real hero was the wonderful AC-12 quine Chloe, who quietly went about her work piecing all the evidence together and presenting it to Hastings and Co, who the did the ambush action sequences. But, we’re nae daft. We’re convinced the Mercurio mannie is not gonna leave us fussing and fuming. It’s obvious he wrote that duff ending to prepare the way for a Season 7, during which the real H will be exposed as the Chief Constable. Kate and Steve will get together. And Ted will marry Corbett’s wife. The satisfactory, happy ending we all deserve.

It may be may but it’s still baltic

My first wedding day on April 8 1974 was a scorcher. I was plootered in my heavy dress and veil. The week’s honeymoon on the West Coast and the rest of the month was also sun-drenched.

Come April 1977, I was confined to the Matty waiting for my twins to be born, while the sun belted doon day-after-day outside. And the high temperatures carried on right through to their birthday, on May 11, and for weeks beyond. Scroll on to 2021 when it’s been freezing for weeks and we actually had snow on May 5.

What happened to global warming?

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This article originally appeared on the Evening Express website. For more information, read about our new combined website.