Apart from my trusty walking stick when I’m oot-n-aboot, I’m thinking of also totin’ a little stool.
No, dinna be sae orra. Nae a wee jobbie! A portable, sit-doonie effort I can use when I’m stuck in a queue. You see, my BB (bad back) has been geein’ me bother since the Hogmanay holiday, and I’m feart my intake of ibuprofen will soon render me ba’ heided.
Only those who’re martyrs to BBs will understand what torments they are. I’ve had mine since just after the birth of my twins, a doc reckoning it was something to do with carrying their weight – yet, I was on bedrest for six weeks, and they were barely four pounds each. Most wifies shoulder heavier handbags.
The pain is in the hollow of my spine, and strikes when I’m standing in one place for more than about 10 minutes, relieved only by a long sit doon. Hence, I’ve spent most of my life avoiding queues like the plague, as well as stand-up tasks like washing dishes. Thanks-be for the invention of the machine which has meant I haven’t stood-and-sudsed a utensil since 1975 – albeit, I’m nae the most popular on self-catering trips.
A pucklie times ower the decades, I’ve been caught in a queue from which I couldna extricate masellie. Like the huge one in customs when I flew to New York for my 70th. I was damnt near in tears (of frustration, pain and sweat), and not a chair in sight. Nearly two hours of agony, which fair did for my mobility for the rest of the trip. Not helped by the fact we were at the top of a trendy Brooklyn apartment building – with no elevator. The Yanks ca’ them walk-ups. I ca’d it: “Aaargh…!”
Dependent on the service and goodwill of others
Sadly, I was trapped in a queue at the beginning of my flight to Tenerife from Prestwick on December 31. Ryanair operates the airport, and there were just two flights that day, both around 6am. Alicante was ca’ed first, then us, joining a long queue in a tunnel-like corridor. And then… nothing.
Obviously, the staff were getting us oot o’ the terminal so they could clear up and offski. But we were stuck there for aboot 20 minties, not a chair in sight. Man I was in agony, too feart to sit on the freezin’ floor lest I got piles and/or couldnae get up again. I almost got through my week’s supply of painkillers.
Although the holiday was brilliant, the damage had been done to my ruddy spine. God bless that mobility scooter, because I could neither walk nor stand for barely a few minties.
Homeward bound, queues a’ ower the airport. My precious quine off to a help desk where she organised a wheelchair and a cheerful hombre pusher. Me and another al’ biddie, who’d done her back in at a Hogmanay party, were asked if we could use the steps of the plane. Yes, nae problem. Then, wheeched past the long-waiting tourists to the head of our boarding queue.
But the message aboot oor ability to climb the stairs must have gone astray. Next thing, me, her and oor accompanying quines were loaded into this huge steel cage, oor wheelchairs locked into chains on the wall and floor. The doors clanged shut, then it slowly, noisily, shooglily rose up to the back door of the plane.
Meanwhile, through the bars of oor cage, I spotted my grandtoots and their dad waving – in paroxysms of laughter. But it made me think about how much those who really can’t walk depend on the service of others. Cheers to you all.
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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