Bit of a collywobbler on Monday when I registered the date.
Had all gone to plan, I’d have been celebrating my 50th wedding anniversary. Losh, am I really that al’? When I covered golden weddings as a cub reporter, I thought the couples were ancient, though many were probably younger than I am now.
Those were great jobs; we were aye invited in – a dram for the photographer, a sherry for me and a bit o’ cake. That unforgettable day the wifie was oot gettin’ her hair done for the evening do, so I set aboot gettin’ a’ the details from her lovely man. First question: “Fit’s yer wife’s name?” Him bamboozled, long pause, then: “I just ca’ her mum.” Aww. We eventually got her name looking through their cards.
But, on Monday, my memory was crystal clear as I started remembering virtually every hour of that special day in 1974. Also a Monday, but unseasonably scorching hot instead of poorin’ rain. My £46 dress fae the Copie had a trendy, high ruffled neck – stiflin’ in that heat.
Me and my bridesmaid doon to posho Ritchie’s on Albyn Place for oor hair done. Lang and wavy was what I’d asked for – like his pin-up French crush Anouk Aimée. I ended up within an inch of my backcombed bouffanted life, like an electrocuted Dusty Springfield in the 1960s. Aaagony. Dashed home, brushed it oot and bunged in a few big rollers.
Bit of a panic again when I tried to phone my man-to-be shortly before oor taxi was due, only to discover he was only just headin’ off the golf course. He was aye late.
Bad photos and food poisoning
King’s College was magical, the grounds green and golden. Sadly, nae magical enough for decent wedding pictures. When they arrived at the reception that evening, not a detail of my bonnie dress could be detected – just a white blob. When I complained, the photographer declared: “We can never guarantee the quality in bright sunlight.” Aye, pull the other one, sunshine.
As a’body cast aff claes in the heat, we headed for the wonderful, now long-bulldozed Amatola on Great Western Road. I kept nippin’ into the lavvie for a quick, secret cigarette (my groom hugely anti-smoking, and I’d lied that I’d stopped – big mistake) only to discover that ony half-puffed and plunked fags were aye pinched, leaving me to scraik, accusatorially: “Fa’d nick the bride’s tabbies?”
A superb room at Banchory’s Tor-Na-Coille hotel for our first night, the bonnie balcony particularly handy when my groom was nowhere to be seen the next morning. Heard this roary sound ootside, looked doon, and there was Juliet’s Romeo – hooverin’ the confetti from his adored new car. Thenceforth I knew my place.
Our seven-day honeymoon was a bit of a bummer. After buying pies from a van at lovely Loch Morlich, I started violently vomiting on the twisty road to Dornoch. We turned back to Ullapool, there to spend two days alternately spewy-lewying, me huddin’ his foreheid ower the pan, then him mine. That’s true love!
I recovered faster and spent the rest of the honeymoon sitting on the shore, terrifying masellie tiddle-less reading The Exorcist. Happy days. We divorced 14 years later. We’re still friends.
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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