A-Z of Scottish Storms. Never mind Henry.

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Life is confusing enough without names for every puff of wind coming our way. Apparently it’s so we pay more attention. So far we have suffered a series of middle class names with strange associations.

1. Abigail – a gingham clad extra in an Enid Blyton book. Irritating but not scary.
2. Barney – an irritating Purple Dinosaur who has driven many parents to hard liquor and reexamining the gun law.
3. Clodagh – Rogers, the singer of the Eurovision hit of many eons back. Long blonde hair and vintage 70’s trousers. Disturbing but again not scary.
4. Desmond – my Auntie Margarets fat dalmatian. aka a sap
5. Eva – Hitlers girlfriend
6. Frank – a boiler suited American form the 1950’s
7. Gertrude – a goose in a Disney film. And as of today
8. Henry – a tweed clad, blustering, red faced, upper class twit of the year.

Henry
Henry

I propose we ditch these no name names and go for something altogether more menacing.

We all remember Hurricane Bawbag our local vernacular for one of these great whirling twists of hell and so here are suggestions of alternatives;

Hoots mon.
Hoots mon.

The A-Z Scottish storms.

A Argie barge
B Bahookey
C  Crabbit
D  Drookit
E  Eejit/Erse
F  Fankle
G  Glasgae kiss
H  Humfie-backit
I   Into a’thing
J  Jaggy Bunnet
K  Kerry oot!
L   Laldy
M  Manky
N   Numpty
O   Oxter
P   Plooky
Q   Quench the quine
R   Radge
S   Stoater 
T   Teuchter 
U   Up shite creek
V    Voddie 
W   Watch yersel’?
X    Xactly why am off to tae Benidorm for ma holidays?
Y    Ya Bass!?
Z    Zip it or I’ll batter ye.

 

Now we’re feart!  Am heidin’ hame noo.

I love our language. It’s bloody great!

“Batton down the hatches or you’ll be blown over Ben Nevis and your knickers will be in Carlisle” they shout.

Getting a bit hacked off with these bleedin’ weather forecasters. Sorry Michael but it’s true.

Courtesy of www.telegraph.co.uk
Courtesy of www.telegraph.co.uk

“Batton down the hatches or you’ll be blown over Ben Nevis and your knickers will be in Carlisle” they shout.

Or words to that effect.

So the plans for the weekend are tempered. We had better not plan anything outsidey, walkish or leaving the house unless we are prepared to battle imminent strangling from fast moving fronds in 100 mph winds.

So here I sit. Saturday afternoon blue sky, cold yes but blue sky having just emerged from the cinema with my eskimo hood, goggles, gloves, boots,  nose guard, GPS emergency system and flash lamps under each oxter to make sure I don’t perish on my way to retrieve the car in the underground car park.

Credited to: weather.about.com
Credited to: weather.about.com

Honestly. My heart goes out to the folk who are battling with the rising tides and whipping winds down South but I wish to god the meteorogical experts would get their act together and stop lumping us all together.

(That word meteorogical looks wrong. It probably is. Well it goes with the territory I suppose. They’re wrong. I’m wrong.)Annoyed and off to take at least 15 of these 23 layers off before taking the frustrated geriatric dogs out for an early evening stroll in the blue pink skied gloaming.

 

 

Hasta La Vista.

Emigrating

Doesn’t this sort of hideous day just make you want to  get online and  buy a one way ticket to Australia?

Having clocked myself in a full length mirror in my underwear yesterday it has been hard to get out of bed let alone leave the house thanks to the sure knowledge that gravity is excelling in it’s bid to drag me down.

So the only thing that has stopped me booking that ticket to escape this siberian hell is the idea that it’s sunny in Oz and a thick thermal ensemble, which is currently all I will be seen in, would hardly be de rigeur on Bondi and I am not taking my clothes off again. Ever. Even if I get run over.

Oh that and the fact I have no money. And I hate flying. And the dogs couldn’t come with me. And teenwolf wouldn’t come with me ‘cos he’s 15 and can’t decide if he likes me or hates me and the idea of being on a long haul flight with your mother would be sooooooo emabrrassing, and my long suffering husband thinks I am having some sort of mid-life crisis.

Which I am.

Obviously.

Bugger.

My proposed beach wear. The bell tent.