After last week’s catastrophic comedy of errors, when one thing after another went pear-shaped, I resolved to become a more grown-up sort of biddie.
No more daft mistakes.
Ah, but a couple of days later, it happened again. And all because of my judicious resolve to eat sensibly and proud efforts to acknowledge my historic family traditions.
Sort of Masterchef meets Lost Family. How could something so harmless and admirable go so wrong?
Because I had to put my own, lazy, reckless, downright daft twist on it.
Short of actually going vegetarian – altogether an artichoke too far – I’m trying to stick to a healthy diet; less red meat, loadsa fish (no problem there, specially if it’s battered,) fruit instead of biscuits, gobs of green veg and monster salads.
All, of course, accompanied by mountains of new tatties and butter.
Every morning I have the miracle nectar of the gods – porridge.
According to everything I read, the magic oats zap cholesterol and blood pressure, cuddle yer bowels, oil the cardiovascular system and do just aboot a’thing to make you feel better, apart from blow-dryin’ yer hair.
“I’ll have some o’ that,” mused Mo about a year ago, when I felt a bittie stappit-up.
Ye ken the feeling. I actually had porridge every day of my school life, cooked from proper, spurtle-stirred, overnight soakings by my faithful ma.
She was the one who taught me the real, Doric wye to eat yer brose.
Her dad was an orra loon (farm boy) in deepest Buchan. To ensure their porridge stayed hot while they ate it in their bothy, their milk was served in a separate bowl.
Spoon dipped in each then into moo, piping hot.
So that’s the wye I’ve always eaten it; nowadays at the kitchen breakfast bar, listening to the radio and flicking through Facebook.
However, thanks to the recent stooshie on This Morning over Phillip Schofield, and my affa nosey schnozzle for a scandal, I’ve been eating it watching the telly in the living room.
Big mistake …
I’ve only a tiny table by the sofa, so I remove my virtually molten oats from the microwave and place on a tray.
Sit doon, tray with porridge on the arm of the sofa, milk bowl in my hand. Double dip. Affa comfy.
And so it’s been for a couple of weeks, until … dinna ken the actual catastrophic choreography, but the moment I sat doon, the bowl with the mound of oaten larva started to slide doon the tray, towards me and … Agony!
And a sotter!
The boiling, glutinous stuff tipped ower on to the top of my peer forearm.
The rest, (fortunately?) burrowing into the folds of my sofa.
The milk hit the deck. Man, fit a mess. As I write, my arm is reid raw, but hopefully, my cholesterol has taken a hit!
Lessons can be learned from SNP politician over This Morning questioning
Following on with my This Morning obsession, I couldnae wait to get stuck into the live telly culture, media select committee on Wednesday.
MPs probing ITV chief exec Dame Carolyn McCall and her director of television Kevin Lygo.
Finally, the big bosses would come under the microscope about how and why the Phillip Schofield scandal was handled.
I’ve no notion how MPs are chosen for these committees but, having watched this in action, I’m utterly appalled.
Who chose Labour’s Kevin Brennan as a member when his first question to the Carolyn boss was: “Why are your here?” Nae that sharp, she didnae fire aff: “Because you invited me.”
Then he declares he’s no idea why this ITV strop should attract so much attention. Really, Kev? Then get yer bum aff that committee, pronto.
Praise be at last for some actual forensic questioning from the SNP’s John Nicolson.
I’m no SNP supporter, but he suddenly became the Perry Mason of what should have indeed been a real House of Commons cross-examination.
He bored right down there to an environment that so many have questioned, including This Morning editor Martin Frizell’s “inadvisable” comparing to an aubergine and “toxic.”
If only more MPs on that committee had a clue why they were there for.
Will Markies betray us like John Lewis did?
Oh, to have a dream come true and persuade pop meister Paul Simon to rally to the aid of Aberdeen.
What a miracle to have the super hitsman write us a follow-up to Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover, like Seventeen Ways To Save Union Street.
We might even get him and the wondrous Art Garfunkle to reunite over the Dee with a performance of a new Bridge Over Troubled Water.
Never mind boxes of floories here and there, is there really any chance of exciting new stores coming to establish themselves in the city any longer?
Or will Markies St Nicholas Centre betray us, like John Lewis did, then build its super new Edinburgh store?
