Fit better wye to lift the spirits during this affa time than tae look back at the good al’ days?
A pucklie years ago, when I first got, and was baffled by, a smart phone, my quine didn’t even ask if I wanted to join Facebook – presumably kennin’ fine I’d say: “Fit’s ‘at?”
She connected me up, raced through a few, fairly cursory instructions (aren’t a’ oor bairns impatient, rotten tech teachers?) and left me to it.
A feartie, it was months before I took the plunge. Wowser, like magic, I was suddeny linked up with relatives roon the world, freens and colleagues I’d seen hide nor hair of in yonks. Now I’m truly hooked.
FB has fair proved a blessing over the last, horrible year as we swap notes on how we’re coping and – best of all – reminisce about the past.
Like the other day an ex-EE reporter recalled some of the dafter jobs he’d had to do and a load of others piled in with even scattier ones.
Up hands who remembers Your View? As he put it: “Trying to gently encourage a shopper at Berryden to part with their thoughts on the big issues of the day.”
Another ex-EE guy answered: “What’s your favourite soup? was the replacement question I got when no one would respond to: “Would you consider seeing a sex therapist?” Or a wifie to the question: “Which Neest building would you like to see refurbished?” Answer: “Dunnottar Castle, because it’s a bit rundown.” Hilarious, happy Mastrick days.
Facebookers can join just about any group known to man to link into your life and interests.
My favourites are those which revel in memories from way back. Like growing up in Rosemount in the 1950s and 60s, far one quine’s mention of a certain sweetie shoppie inspires loadsa other wrinklies to mind far they bought their Lucky Tatties and gobstoppers, some Memory Man listing his favourites fae the Copie at the top o’ Short Loanings right up to Midstocket Road.
What a delight. I’m also jined up to a’ the Doric groups – language, music, humour. Folk diggin’ oot words and phrases their mums and mine used.
Go on. Fit dis: “Caa tee the door” mean? Now I’ve discovered there’s hinies o’ us sup oor porridge fae one bowl, then dip the spoon into anither o’ milk.
Earlier this week, I spotted an FB aboot the late, great Tucker Donald, to whose wonderful voice we danced at the Beach Saturday nights. (Remember the Beach Crawl – the quine bendin’ back and the loon tiltin’ ower her, every two steps).
The singer’s adoring old fans piled in with comments, including a gadgie who comes: “If you hadn’t pulled before he sang 16 Candles you went hame on the bus.”
Del Shannon’s Kelly was oor heartbreaker fae Tucker. If ye were still standin’ as he sang it, ye might as well collect yer coat pronto and head for the free bussies. Anither wik withoot a click …
Not so Nice ‘n’ Easy to get tresses to dye for
Jings, crivvens, here we go again, girls. Yesterday I was due for my hair appointment. Cut and colour, every seven weeks. Now, once again, we’re back to oor ain devices.
Trimmin’ a bittie here and there, then into the dye-pot. Just when I was getting used to the salon full of masked, face-shielded stylists and missing oot on my fine free lattes.
At least I’ve got plenty boxes of Nice ’n’ Easy in the cupboard. Back during the original lockdown, I’d problems getting the exact honey-blonde (aye, that would be right) shade I wanted, so when I eventually saw it on Amazon I scooped up six boxes. Before they’d even been delivered, hairdressers were given the green light again. D’oh, typical Mo-gaffe.
Trouble is, I’ll probably need even more than the six before we’re back to normal again. For some reason, my pathetic locks don’t seem to absorb a home-hue for more than 10 days. So one minute I can be a lustrous golden and a couple of washes later I’m bleached jandies. If I take any chance and leave the lotion on longer than recommended, my scalp is raspberry ripple.
So girls, don’t DARE complain about the state of your hairdresser-deprived heidies because your locks are probably getting thicker and you’ve only a pucklie roots to touch-up.
Save your sorrow for us martyrs to dye-defying hair, which gets thinner and lankier the longer it grows.
I quit but plans still went up in smoke
Sod’s Law. Just when I’ve managed to save enough dosh from ditchin’ the fags and set my heart on getting major work done in the kitchen comes the ban on tradespeople doing non-essential work.
Mind you, I was already struggling to find a joiner willing to do the bizz. Are they rarer than hen’s teeth? Or just interested in big jobbies? And is there anything more infuriating than having someone in to give you an estimate, then never hearing a peep from them again?
This article originally appeared on the Evening Express website. For more information, read about our new combined website.
