Susan Morrison: Let’s do a swap deal with Spain

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Looks like climate change has hit the teenage years, then. It’s just one temper tantrum after another. One minute we’re dodging snow and the next we’re blinking into blazing sunshine.

But beware! Do not peel off a layer! In seconds, you’ll find yourself lurching about clutching at your frostbitten digits, faster, in fact, than a gazillion pounds can be wiped off the value of a utility company caught overcharging customers in the Wirral.

On the day everything hit us at once, I was in charge of escorting mama to the airport. She was flying off to visit the brother who lives in Spain. And why does he live in Spain? Well, I refer you to my opening remarks. It seems our Spanish cousins are in the habit of greeting the sun first thing in the morning and expecting it to hang about not just all day, but indeed for weeks and even months at a time.

Just what the Spanish talk to each other about at bus stops is a complete mystery to me.

It has crossed my mind that we are all still one great happy European family, Farage the Barrage notwithstanding, and thus surely it is possible that we could come up with some sort of swap arrangement, where they could loan us a bit of sun in exchange for a mass shipment of tablet?

We left Sunny Leith in the sort of weather that would have made Scott of the Antarctic write “weather’s a bit parky today – the lads decided to stay put in the tent” in his diary. By the time we reached the edge of the city, the mood had swung into the sort of howling gale that made clipper skippers worry about the top gallant sails on the way around the Cape of Good Hope.

Getting into the airport required a race against the wind, not to mention the sleet. There hadn’t been sleet until now. I think it was waiting to get a good run at us across the vast open spaces of the car park.

We staggered into the surprisingly helpful waiting arms of the Ryanair ground staff, and yes, you read that correctly. Ryanair has taken on a whole new disorientating aspect of being nice to the people who bought their tickets. I know. What are they up to, eh?

The nice young lady directed us upstairs. The wind battered into the huge windows. The sleet clawed at the glass. The flight was called and off Mum trotted. With me, hanging on to her leg like an angry toddler, screaming, “Take me with you Mummy! Don’t leave me here with the bad weather!”

Don’t know what I was thinking. Didn’t work when I was two. Why should it work in my advanced old age?

One look, that’s all it took, and I shuffled off, snivelling, back to my room.

Tourists need a bit of true grit

TIP to tourists. Please, just because you left in spring, do not think that spring has followed you. It has not.

Please remember that in Scotland bare legs and open sandals are merely an invitation to have your lower limbs sandblasted by council gritters.

Cheer up, though. That’s practically a spa treatment and all for free.

Seriously, though, we may want to consider stationing the Sally Army outside the airport with hot soup or something.

God knows, we don’t want rubbish ratings on TripAdvisor because we let tourists turn into popsicles.

Daffodil is the Putin of flowers

LAST week I sallied forth sporting the old but serviceable spring jacket. This was nearly a fatal mistake but an understandable one. The sun was doing that fake shiny thing, but the clincher on the deal was a gently bobbing daffodil in the garden, beckoning me out to stroll in the springtime warmth.

It was colder than Vladimir Putin’s smile.

This leads me to conclude that daffodils are untrustworthy liars.

Do not trust them an inch. Oh, of course they’ll look sunny and smiley, but do not be fooled. They are about as reliable as a Ukip candidate.

Bagging a compliment at security

THERE’S a really cheery girl on the airport security desk. She doesn’t just check your perfumes and potions to make sure you conform to whatever the regulations decree this week, she passes complimentary comment on your choice of shampoo, facial toner or sun cream.

She hands out the little plastic bags that apparently can contain a full-on Semtex meltdown and she helps decant bits, bobs and even crayons.

I was in mid-tantrum because I wasn’t going to the sunshine, so she did what she did with the other badly behaved toddlers. She gave me a free plastic bag to play with – supervised, of course, by my mum.

Well, gosh, if the government is going to give you summat for nowt, just grab and go, say I.

So, if the government regards you a potential terrorist, you get a free plastic bag. But if you’re shopping in Tesco, you have to pay.