Tenerife Hogmanay holiday part two.
Panic, panic after telling my mates I was Costa Adeje-bound. Did I ken that resort was a bit up-and-doonie? Hills to get from hotels to the beach and the main drag in the evenings? Maybe OK gan doon, but a bit of a pecher for me on the wye back?
I consulted my travel agent – AKA my quine. Here’s me: “I’m thinkin’ aboot gettin’ a mobility buggy.” Here’s her: “That’s brilliant. I didn’t want to suggest it in case you’d be offended.” So, she did her online thing and, hey presto, buggy booked for seven days. Back o’ the net.
Sadly, the gadgie fa delivered it to our hotel on January 1 was majorly personality-challenged. Surely used to nervous, ancient, new-buggiers like me, yet he was a stranger to even a welcoming scowl. No light chit-chat.
Attempting to crack a smile on his po-face, I spotted a “Charlie” label and inquired: “Is that the buggy or you?” Morose Mr Sunshine pointed silently to the badge on his shirt: “Gary”. Got it, Gazzer. Gee, thanks.
Fortunately, Charlie was 100 times more charismatic. Fit a laugh. Especially when I had nae a clue how to ride him. And I never developed the knack.
How the kids loved it as I tanked doon a hill, waving my stick to summon my “legions” to follow. Silent and speedy. But, oh, the constant embarrassment when I wisnae gan up a hill fast enough and soddin’ Charlie gave up the ghost, mid-mount, my quine having to ficher wie something near my bum to get me restarted.
January 2, we left the paradise of our hotel pools to taxi into Los Cristianos in search of a little bit of Aiberdeen. Que? No sooner were we oot the cab than we were home, hearing: “Fa’ still needs a chair? And fa’ canna see the screen?”
A huge red and white flag proclaiming Tenerife Dons; Zizzi Bar, an outreach Dons supporters’ club with an ever-increasing kirn of tables and chairs roon a giant screen. Neest-exiled locals, holidaymakers, all in full throat for the three goals against Ross County. Great stuff for my COYR-daft family.
Ended with my having to down a special AFC shot, whose name I shan’t repeat. Never encountered a shot before. Never will again. Needed three swigs.
Watch out, pedestrians
While you lot at home frozzled, we were sunbathing, swimming, eating, then evenings on my increasingly beloved Charlie doon the tiled wee hills to the nightlife along the various esplanades.
No brake. Just handlebars, like a bike’s, with the “go” lever by my right thumb, and a tiny knob in the middle to increase or decrease power. Easy-peasy? Not when I kept thinking I was actually riding a bike and kept mistaking the go lever for the brake.
Suffice to say, I near flattened my precious granddaughter when she happened to wander into my nervous path
As a result, any unexpected object in my path was liable to be accelerated into until I desperately kamikazed: braking by shooting my leggies oot the sides, to the horror of all spectators. Not a bonnie sight.
Suffice to say, I near flattened my precious granddaughter when she happened to wander into my nervous path. And I can tell you, those selfish pedestrians who paid no heed to my accidentally cannoning approach will never make the same mistake again… But Charlie was my darling.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970