Christmas is a brilliant time to be an old wrinklie.
Chances are one of the younger generation will be cooking the festive feast, so we ancients can pit up oor wobbly pins, relax and sip a cocktail or five. And, so it came to pass, over many decades I was aye the een landed with the hassle of a’ the food shopping, then one hand up the turkey’s dowp and the other laying the table.
In spite of having two hubbies, I never managed to nab a man whose culinary proclivities extended past beans on toast. Nor do I believe I ever cracked the code of producing a juicy turkey, despite laying on gallons of gravy.
I recall once, after the unanimous verdict roon the table of: “Tsaffa dry”, I declared the bird extinct and announced I’d be serving roast beef the next year. Scraiks of: “No way!” from the horrified family.
These days, I stress at the slightest blip in my life, so I look back with admiration at how I coped for so many years without actually blowing a Christmas gasket. Like I could have done the day before Christmas Eve, when I turned up at the biggest food supermarket we had in the 1970s – Fine Fare at Bridge of Dee – to discover a huge queue waiting for… trolleys! And me with two-year-old twins in tow.
Or the December 23, when I’d a relative staying until the New Year. Frantically stuffing food into the already stowed-oot fridge, suddenly the light went off and I realised it was an ex-fridge. Panic, panic, panic.
Tried to get a new one delivered before Christmas Day. Nae chunce. Desperate, rang a mannie whose name I found in Yellow Pages. He came pronto and fixed it in minutes – with a new light bulb. D’ho.
And the unforgettable December 25 we had a power cut the very second I put the turkey in the oven. Now how panic, panic is that?
The kids had joined forces to buy me a bosker of a surprise present: tickets to see my everlasting crush, David Essex
After getting me doon aff the ceiling, my man dragged me oot for a walk to calm me doon. En route, we met the power gadgies up a pole, who said it would be fixed in an hour. A late, late meal, but disaster averted.
Recently, I’ve been treated to delish turkey courtesy of my son-in-law’s sister and her man, who make superb hosts; certainly unruffled swans above the water, although they’re probably paddling like stink beneath.
But, on Monday, I was the guest of my loon (at least I’ve bred a male cook) and his wife to delish vittles and Black Manhattan cocktails – that’s the life.
The kids had joined forces to buy me a bosker of a surprise present: tickets to see my everlasting crush, David Essex, at Glasgow Concert Hall in September. Get this – row B. If he looks at me, I’ll just fade right awa’… I saw him in Aberdeen yonks ago, but I’d no idea he was still hale and hearty, let alone touring at 76.
While I was gettin’ ower my excitement, I swooned as my loon called up some photos of my hero on his telly. Then he changed it on to Captain Mainwaring in Dad’s Army. “Put it back to David Essex,” I barked, at which he revealed: “Mum, that’s him today.”
Losh, he might not even see me in row B without specs. But I’ll wave and scraik until he does.
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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