The phone should ring any minute. Oh, wait, perhaps they don’t use the phone. I bet they cast a giant image of a slightly annoyed Scottish mum on to the clouds, and that way, I know the call has gone out.
Marvel are in town. The Avengers must be looking for that elusive, rarely seen Scottish member of the family.
Obviously, I’ll need a costume. No superhero worth the name can take to the air without the snazzy outfit. I’ll leave the skintight leather to Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow. For one thing, she suits it, and for another, she can get into it. I can look at it.
Seriously, I don’t think I could get that outfit over my ankles, which makes me wonder if that’s an unheralded superpower on its own. How else does she squeeze into that catsuit?
I once met a dominatrix (don’t ask, it’s a long story and involves me, a Greggs steakbake and King’s Cross Station) who told me that it took an entire can of Johnsons Baby Talc before she was ready to roll, as it were. It’s not a scent I’d readily associate with the sort of shenanigans people get up to behind the blinds of Belgravia, but there you go.
You can’t deny though that young Scarlett looks amazing in that gear, the darling of teen lads and middle-aged dads the world over. Me in tight leather would look like something in the Summer sale from DFS Sofas, simultaneously available at and generating zero interest even though it’s big enough to seat four.
It’s not just the getting in that bothers me anyway. I’m the sort of gal that likes to know where the lavvies are at any given time. How does she go to the loo? How does any superhero, for that matter? Superman seems to be bragging with his pants outside his tights, but you’re not telling me that Spiderman can get out of that outfit in a hurry if he’s overdone the orange juice at breakfast.
Iron Man is just courting danger with the amount of electrical wizardry he’s surrounded by. An unauthorised leak would turn him into a flying Christmas Tree. There must be a comfort codpiece we’ve not seen.
I was inclining more to comfort over style, to be brutally honest. Wee coat, done up against the cold, a handy wee scarf, matching nice wee hat and a pair of very sensible shoes.
It’s Supermum to the rescue!
The rest of the superheroes may wonder at my superpowers. Easy. I am a Scottish mother. My voice can carry over six aisles of Tesco without me even trying.
One sharp “Put that down” and the supervillain will drop his mighty war weapon with the air of Trump in the Oval Office getting a ticking off from Angela Merkel.
There’s also my endless supply of tissues, stashed in every pocket. Not all of them are completely unused, of course, but I imagine your average superhero would be glad of a balm-infused pocket hankie in the heat of battle.
You’re not telling me that Thor goes about wiping his nose on his sleeve.
Mustn’t mumble when the TV’s on
One superpower I don’t have is keeping up with the plot on television when everyone in the cast appears to be speaking and sucking soor plooms at the same time. I’ve lost count of the programmes I’ve bailed from because I can’t understand what anyone is saying.
Jamaica Inn was the first real culprit I noticed. I put the mumbling down to the fact that it was set in Cornwall, and they all talk like Robert Newton playing Long John Silver down there. Argh, Jim lad, and all that.
Pretty soon, however, it seemed that virtually everyone was trying to out-mumble each other and shows like Taboo and SS-GB were unwatch-able. Mind you, the script for Taboo appeared to be mainly Tom Hardy (pictured) grunting.
I put it down to advancing age, but then realised I could still leap like a spring lamb to get to the remote control when the adverts come on. Oh look. Now that they are trying to sell us soup, soap powder and stair lifts the diction is pin-sharp and the volume way too high. Funny that.
Parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs..
George Osbourne looks like he’s fundraising for something and seems up for a challenge when it comes to getting the pennies in.
He’s taking jobs at a furious rate. He’s an MP, he helps out at some financial outfit, he’s available to do after-dinner speaking, and now he’s taken up editing some community newspaper. So, does anyone have any wee jobs they need doing? You know, some gentle weeding or taking your dog for a quick walk?
Think of it as a sort of Bob-A-Job scheme for ex-Chancellors.
If it catches on, ten quid could get you Gordon Brown to liven up your kid’s birthday party. Rumour has it he does a great balloon animal.