It’s been a week of Covid firsts. First time at the dentist since October, having missed my six-month check-up and hygienist rake-oot in April.
I’m a canny NHS patient – can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t be, given the extortionate rates for private treatment, including payment plans.
Forced to become a privateer for a wee whilie when my life-long NHS gadgie retired, I discovered it cost a fortune.
So I was quick aff the mark when I got to switch to an affa coothie NHS mannie in the same practice.
While two of my private-paying pals elsewhere were trying to get appointments, but being told it was still emergency-treatment only, I’d a receptionist phone me a couple of weeks ago offering me a time. Now who’s got the perks?
I’m also told private patients have to pay extra to cover the cost of the protective face shields etc, while I paid zilch. Vive la NHS.
First time oot ’n’ aboot, for lunch. Ken ‘is, getting ready I suddenly came ower a’ stressed and anxious, realising I hadn’t been doon-toon since March.
Apart from a couple of occasions with family here at home, it’s been months since I got dolled up – full make-up and jewellery – instead of just slingin’ on my comfy, baggie claes for a day behind closed doors. Looked in the mirror at this heavily eye-shadowed wifie and wondered – fa’s she?
Oor meal had been booked and cancelled twice. So the three of us were super-excited, albeit a bittie Covid-jittery, to actually walk in the front door of Cafe Boheme in Windmill Brae.
Would there be ony pyochterin’ staff/customers lyin’ in wait to pass on their germs to three scaredy septuagenarians? Would there heck. Every bonnie-laid table was empty. One masked waiter. We started to enjoy oor unlocked sellies – especially when we discovered there was five quid off the house Sauvignon blanc.
We hoovered the delish £20-for-two courses and didn’t even notice the party of five coming in and seating themselves well across the room. We felt safe and sated.
But I didnae feel a’ that safe on my first First Bus on the wye doon. Dutifully masked.The first wifie I clocked – sittin’ near the front – sure as heck was obeying orders with a mask. Aye, hingin’ under her chin. Scyooze me? Fit’s the point? Just wear it to get on and pay yer fare?
Then I eyeballed the state o’ the mannie in front o’ us. Mask – tic. Ower moo – tic. Under schnozzle – oh for f…lip’s sake!
Fit’s the point of sticking to the rules when there are so mony feels like them on the loose?
Hat’s off to Maureen
I’m no SNP supporter, but allow me to tilt my toorie to retiring Nationalist MSP Maureen Watt, pictured. She comes from strong stock.
Many moons ago, as a young reporter, I’d to shadow her dad, Hamish, on the campaign trail roon the Neest for mony an election.
And an affa fair and fine politician he was.
She followed in his excellent footsteps; always close to the campaigns that needed to be fought. And fit a delight, when she became the first MSP to swear allegiance in Doric.
As a retired Mo, to a newly retired Mo: Keep spikken oot.
Mystery of millionaire who works night shift
I love mysteries, especially the one in Scotland meantime in which National Lottery bosses are attempting to suss oot what’s happened to whoever claimed the winning £58 million Euromillions lottery jackpot in March – but has yet to come forward to validate the ticket.
And if he/she/they don’t before Sunday, the treasure chest is lost and the cash divided between charities.
Curiouser and curiouser. Apparently the golden ticket was claimed by someone who bought it in Ayrshire.
Why in the name of all that’s sensible wouldn’t you have stood up to the plate with the life-changing ticket for three months?
My reporter’s schnozzle sniffs a story…
Meanwhile, comes the almost unbelievable tale of 64-year-old Elaine Thompson who, along with hubby Derek, scooped £2.75 million on the lottery 25 years ago.
Against many of the odds, the couple has led a wonderfully happy life since; hols in their favourite Las Vegas and helping their kids to get on the property ladder. As you would.
But this week it was revealed Elaine opts to do four overnight, shelf-stacking shifts at her local Markies. Wowser.
Good on ye, Mrs T. All I can say is – ye must be aff yer heid.