Spik aboot stress. Not sooner are we unlocking, than I’m suddenly appreciating all the relaxing “freedoms” of being locked.
Free to go about every day without make-up. Well, nae quite. Not if I dinna want to fear the life oot o’ the gadgies that do my deliveries. Asda food, Amazon parcels, my quine’s never-ending Next. Hunners o’ Hermes. Not to mention the hunkie postie – never oot o’ shorts – who rings my bell (so to speak) whenever there’s a letterbox-defying parcel.
How could I open the door to them barefaced? Like one of the zombies from Thriller? So I slap on a bittie foundation to hide the purply blotches and dark circles. We used to call it Pan-Stick. A shilling from Woolies? Never a better cosmetic. Nowadays, I also have the guts to go eye-naturelle. Me who’d once barely venture oot without half a coal mine plastered on my upper lids. Now, naked-liddedly shadow-less, I’m a shadow of my pre-pandemic sellie.
Free to tootle aboot in the same claes every day. Because naebody spots it. Pretty old claes, savin’ a’ the best stuff until we’re unlocked. Even better, the freedom to get into your jammies/goonie early evening; when yer bra is just starting to feel tight. And you know nobody’s going to come to the door to catch you sloppin’ aboot. Free to wash my hair only twice a week. Horrors! As it turned oot, my super-stragglie, fine locks seemed to thrive on the lack of shampoo/conditioner bombardment every day. This week, my hairdresser reckoned she hadn’t seen them in better nick. Pity she ended up chopping most of them offski.
Ah, but then the major stress. Waiting yonks to find a joiner to replace my battered worktops, then… Gotcha! But – typical – soon as you think about getting one jobbie done, you want another. And another. Suffice to say, my kitchen will be out-of-bounds for four days in the middle of May. I resolved to get oot-and-aboot with family and friends. Easy-peasy. Just need to plan the days, then book our favourite eatooteries. Dis-as-ter. Fa’ are a’ you highly organised folk who’ve booked a’ the ootside and inside tables in a’ the best places seemingly throughout May?
So there I was, my lockdown-low blood pressure zooming again. Those online booking systems are a nightmare, especially for a virgin like me who usually just phones. Every time I plumped for a time at a place, I got “not available”. In desperation, I shot off an email to a restaurant, explained my predicament (and my age) and appealed to whoever was in charge to help me. Sure enough, an absolute champion of a quine emailed back asking for my phone number, then called me later to sort out a booking exactly where and when I wanted. Success. But I’ve still got another three days to book for while I’m exiled from my kitchen. Stress, stress, unlocked stress!
Whars’s wardens when we need them?
What is happening? Outbreaks of vandalism and other anti-social behaviour in various parts of Aberdeen, most recently in Garthdee.
In these types of destructive acts, it’s usually not the local residents who are to blame, but louts from somewhere else. Here’s hoping the police can clamp down on the sods.
However, I agree with those who’ve complained that city wardens seem to have disappeared. The council claims they’re still oot and aboot.
Well, I used to see them every two or three days. Haven’t seen one in weeks.
Moved by march of the royals behind dad
Yes, I did shed a tear during the duke’s funeral last Saturday. But it wasn’t when I saw the Queen alone in her pew in Windsor Chapel, head down, brimmed hat covering her face. She’s nae daft. No way did she want the telly cameras powering in for a close-up of her grief. And I suspect it was the great lady’s choice to be so socially isolated from her family during the service. As she sat directly adjacent to the coffin, she wanted it to be just him and her together again.
What did prick my tears was the royals’ march behind the hearse. To a get-on-with-it, drumming beat, they lined up and walked behind him. Poor Charles looking heartbroken about the death of a father whose ambitions for the young, sensitive prince were sometimes too demanding. The redoubtable Princess Anne in a stunning black hat and long coat – like one of the original suffragettes. We couldn’t see her face for the veil. But we knew she was so sad at the loss of her adored dad, who admired her unemotional frankness and steely strength. Just like his.
Behind them, Andrew, carrying all the burdens of his ongoing investigations about the Jeffrey Epstein scandal. And Prince Edward – once the joke of the family, after his TV It’s A Royal Knock-Out catastrophe, but now seemingly, with wife Sophie, among the closest and most trusted of the Queen’s inner circle. Well done, Eddie! As for Harry shooting off back to LA before his gran’s 95th birthday – says it all…