Too be, or not to be… two metres from the gadgie next to you?
That is the question we’re asking as Boris announces folks in England can start getting up close and one-metre personal on July 4, while the Scots’ Heidie is still playing it slow and steady, insisting we keep oor distance meantime. Call me the class sook, but I’m with Miss S all the way, as I suspect the majority of us are.
No longer confined to staying two metres apart, I fear many irresponsible asses south of the border will go plain loco in their locals when they’re open for business again next week. And isn’t a PM who made the fatally flawed decision of taking us into lockdown far too late – possibly sacrificing as many as 20,000 lives – now more than capable of cutting social distancing dangerously early?
One member of the government’s SAGE advisory group believes the over-70s should take their own precautions when social distancing is reduced.
Outbreak Medicine Specialist (and he should ken) Professor Calum Semple has suggested aged mannies and wifies should wear “ribbons” when we’re oot-’n’-aboot to show we want a decent space between oorsellies and passers-by.
Surprise, surprise, when the prof made his suggestion on radio, the lines lit up with irate wrinklies. I near tiddled masellie when this ancient cove called in to say he was bald as a coot and where was he supposed to dangle the ribbons?
Most of the up-in-arms OAPS were rightly asking: Why should we have to wear something out of a Tom Jones song to grant us a bit of understanding and respect? Why can’t the young ‘uns do it naturally?
The number of times I’ve been hobblin’ on my daily walking-stick constitutional, advancing towards an energetic 20-something on the same pavement, and it’s me that ends up veering into the centre of the road.
Or an ear-plugged jogger snuffles past, barely inches clearance, sweat poorin’, wheezin’ like Mutley the Dog…
Meanwhile, as our lockdown seems to be drawing to an end, praise-be hairdressers are under starter’s orders.
I’ve already texted mine for an early appointment on humanitarian grounds. My locks seems to be growing as fast as my online shopping list.
Every week, in my diet-ravenous state, I discover new treats that look vaguely slimmer-friendly. (Just as if.)
But I get so intent pressing the button, my attention to weights and quantities leaves a lot to be desired. Last week, instead of four baking tatties, I got four packs of flaming four. With butter, a stone-plus on the hips.
This week, sez the delivery mannie: “Bit of a Tea-Jenny are you?” Scyooze me? Up he wallops toting what looks like a giant bag of compost. Fit next? Three fields of carrots?
Tetley tea bags. Not just the 40 I thought I’d ordered, but a whackin’ 420 sack of them. Enough to suffice me with cuppas for the rest of my life. And probably get a major deduction to provide the funeral tea after the crem.
Hols game of throes quite the dilemma
Me and my pal have just had to pay the balance on the holiday in Majorca we booked in autumn last year for this autumn.
I really wasn’t sure we should cough up, but apparently all the financial advice is to do the full bizz and then claim back if it’s cancelled. No problemo.
And don’t accept vouchers for another hol. Get the cash. Fair enough, but I’m in the throes of a dilemma because now I’m not really sure whether I actually want to go.
And I suspect there are thousands of Neesters in the same position. Is it safe, or isn’t it? Even though the holiday companies insist it is, they’re all understandably desperate for our dosh.
For a start, I’m worried about the plane – all of us packed in together after social distancing for so long. And because my breathing is nae quite up to Mo Farah’s standard, I struggle to intake more than a dribble of oxygen behind the mask. Mind you, maybe an in-flight voddie or two would help. But will they be banned as well?
Next a friend informs me hotel swimming pools might not be open, even in September, because of the risk of infection. Sod that. What’s the point of going if you can’t bake on a lounger then slither, like a beached whale, into the waves?
I just hope Thompson’s Holidays (I refuse to call it that daft Tui) can come up with all the answers for us long before take-off. I hope you all get the hols you’re expecting, can rearrange them, or get your money back. But methinks there might be a load of holiday nightmares in the pipeline.
Line from song never failed to make us cry
My dad always said buxom Anne Shelton was the forces’ favourite singer during the Second World War.
But Vera Lynn always had a special place in my mum’s heart because of her song: There’ll Bluebirds Over The White Cliffs Of Dover.
They stayed in Folkestone, near the cliffs, just before Dad was called up. During that time, she often had her adored wee brother, James, to stay from Aberdeen.
So when Vera sang: “And Jimmy will go to sleep in his own little room again,” Mum – even decades later – was in tears. And all of us.