Since most folk have probably had a very quiet Hogmanay, let me be one of the first to wish you a happy new year.
And cripes, do we all need a good-news, healthy 2021.
In last week’s column I kept you guessing with a bit of a festive cliffhanger, when all our best-laid plans went doon the Dee on a digestive.
There we were, cheerily thanking St Nick for granting us at least a one-day truce so we could be together.
Then, early evening on the 23rd, came this wailing phone call. My quine: “Awwww Muuum. The worst has happened…” Well, it definitely wasn’t the worst that could befall us. But it wasn’t exactly whoop-dee-do stuff.
She’d just had a call from the track and trace gadgies saying someone in her loon’s class had been in contact with a Covid case. He had to be in isolation until December 28 (taking in the time since he’d left school).
Soooo – unless she was to lock the six-year-old in his room – they’d have to have Christmas Day on their ownio. Spik aboot shave-a-bandy. Fit a bummer.
Therefore Plan B was dreamed up. Along with the other grandma and grandad, I’d go to their quine’s hoosie on the 25th. Thanks for havin’ me, Broons.
En route, we stopped off at my quine’s, in the back gate and greeted the isolated family through the French window. Ken ‘is, it worked a treat, the pyjammied youngsters high as kites.
We handed over our prezzies, they gave us theirs, and the toots were able to show us the treasure trove of toys they got from Santa who, thankfully, had been granted special virus dispensation to scooter doon millions o’ lums.
Although we ootsiders were perished in the freezin’ cal’, the kids enjoyed the novelty of it all and it was really quite a laugh – although I kept thinking about those photographs from the 1964 typhoid epidemic, when parents could see their bairns only through the windows of the City Hospital.
Later that day, after our meal, we Zoomed them, opened gifts and had a marathon quiz where me and the other two oldies were pitched against the youngies, tempers fraying (ie mine) when they kept passing their answers to me in “whispers” which could have been heard as far away as the outer suburbs o’ Clatt.
It was late before our two-way Christmas Day finally wound up – the wee yins still high and full of life.
I actually think that will be one of the Christmases which will go down in their little memories as unforgettable.
Why I’m not wild about Harry and Meghan
Peer Harry and Meghan have developed a touchy o’ the Marmite aboot them. Half the world loves ’em to bits and the other half cowks at their every move.
Take the first podcast in their new Spotify series, reputedly due to earn them a whopping £30 million.
The reception has been decidedly mixed, with some drooling over the amiable chattiness of the young couple and others suggesting it was all a bit: “Pass the sick-bag, Alice.”
The exiled royals introduce a host of slebs to find out what 2020 has meant for them, including another, may I suggest, Marmite star – James Corden.
Now I thought he was smashing as Smithy in Gavin and Stacey, but why he got his own US telly series beats me. It’s about as funny as an outbreak of piles and his smarming ower his showbiz guests is excruciating.
Back with the Sussexes, they treat us to wee Erchie wishing a happy new year in a perfect Hollywood accent, while the prince bangs on aboot “twenny-twenny”.
Meanwhile Meghan – who appears intent on, and confidently qualified to, save the world and its mutt – quotes Martin Luther King Junior and chunters about the importance of “connection” between humanity (que?). Ironic if you’re deep in lockdown.
They ended assuring us: “Love always wins.” Where’s Alice when you need her?
It’s a Dame shame for delightful Delia
Congrats to everyone in the Neest recognised in the Queen’s New Year Honours list, especially those on the front line of the pandemic.
Good for you also the new knights and dames of our land. But just a thought. Queen of Puddings Mary Berry got her damehood in October, but how come domestic godmother Delia Smith remains dame-free?
After all, in the ‘70s she introduced a whole generation of young women (like me) to the cooker. And her step-by-step, make-something-delish telly programmes were unmissable to millions of aspiring perfect-omelette makers.