Moreen Simpson: I really came up short in capital’s mini style stakes

As someone once dubbed the biggest gossip in town, I’m fair strugglin’.

Surely I’m not the only one to click that, in these isolating times, there’s nae goss worth a damn. In fact, there’s nae goss ava’. Maybe just as well I canna have lunch with my pals because we’d probably have to sit in silence.

So fit’s a peer quine to do when there’s zilch to fire her imagination? Has to be the telly. All my telephone chats with mates these days revolve around what’s good or bad on the small screen. Feel gypes, we’re in a panic if we don’t have at least a couple of recommended series recorded, on-demanded or Netflixed.

Rarely do we agree what’s good or bad. Others adored chess-absorbed The Queen’s Gambit; bored me to tears. Ditto Bridgerton. Youngies drooled ower Normal People. Me and my fellow ancients loathed it with a passion even greater than on the screen.

I came across an absolute belter of a documentary earlier this week that brought the young Mo flooding back. My Generation, on BBC Two, was fronted by the superbly funny, self-deprecating, still gorgeous Michael Caine, remembering the cultural revolution of the 1960s in his home town of London. I watched, absorbed, wondering if I might suddenly appear in the footage.

The summer of 1967 was when I took off to be a mother’s “help” (there’s a laugh) in London because I wanted to be in what I thought was the centre of the world. Every day off, I’d tart masellie up with the trendiest Aberdeen C&A’s claes I’d bought in preparation for joining the “in” crowd and headed for Carnaby Street and Chelsea.

Losh, did I feel like a trendsetter, scanning every pavement for a glimpse of one of my idols, especially king Kink Ray Davies or tantalising Terence Stamp.

All I spotted was that my Bridge Street frocks looked positively frumpy compared to the micro-minis only a sliver ower the bums of the frontline King’s Road fashionistas.

And my hair looked Jurassic – not long and dishevelled-sexy like Marianne and Julie, nor Vidal-block-chopped like Twiggy. Just ear-length, straggly hingin’.

So, instead of being elated aboot rubbing shooders wi’ the stars, I felt I was standin’ oot like the ultimate country bumpkin, thence driven to comfort-eating burgers and gateaux in every trendy cafe I spied.

Before heading home to this backwater in September, I lashed oot on a mini dress from Mary Quant’s famous Bazaar boutique – not even having the courage to try it on. Maybe just as well mum and dad went ballistic when they spied its teeniness. Because – thanks to my star-starved appetite – my expansive hurdies hadnae a chance o’ squeezin’ into it. Never did.

Trump full of promises over N-east coast plans

Only five days before Joe Biden is sworn in as the next president of the United States, but it remains all a bit scary. Around the world, people are suggesting Donald Trump has mental health issues which have left him believing the election was rigged and he should remain in the White House.

Yet he still commands a huge influence over the right-wing thugs who marched on Washington last week, with such horrifying results.

The most terrifying thing is that this frightening man will still have sole and complete control over the USA’s nuclear weapons until January 20.

Grampian folk are doubtless reminded of our own victimisation at his hands.

Courtesy of then First Minister Alex Salmond taking the final decision away from Aberdeenshire councillors (thanks, Big Eck), we lost a huge swathe of one of our most stunning and scientifically precious stretches of beach; now an extortionately expensive golf course, with another in the pipeline.

The Trump circus wooed us with promises of thousands of jobs, new homes, a holiday village – an income magnet.

Zilch has come to pass and Trumperama at Balmedie remains in the red. Holyrood owes the north-east a huge apology for thrusting The Donald, his bullying tactics and down-sized development into our midst.

Postcode lottery would strain Patients

Local GP practices have rightly appealed to us not to call them asking about our Covid vaccine appointments.

It’s understandable so many of us, particularly the elderly, are desperate to get the jabs which could save our lives. However, we have to be patient, especially if we’re clogging line and preventing ill people from getting through to the surgeries.

But I couldn’t help noticing from the EE story some medical groups have started on the over-80s, while some are still waiting for supplies. Hopefully, the jab roll-out is not developing into a postcode lottery.