Susan Morrison: Mutant with no pollutant; Number 10 comes in peace

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It’s a hybrid. I always thought a hybrid was a plant. In the movies it’s usually the sort of thing engineered by a mad scientist, which morphs into a monster that goes on to demolish Big Ben before being felled by a square-jawed hero, but no, it turns out a hybrid is a type of engine which uses less bad stuff and produces less bad stuff. This is all good for the air quality.

It’s a hybrid. I always thought a hybrid was a plant. In the movies it’s usually the sort of thing engineered by a mad scientist, which morphs into a monster that goes on to demolish Big Ben before being felled by a square-jawed hero, but no, it turns out a hybrid is a type of engine which uses less bad stuff and produces less bad stuff. This is all good for the air quality.

They measure how good the air is, you know (I’ve been doing homework). There’s an Air Quality Measurement Station at the foot of Leith Walk, measuring the err, quality of the air, I guess. To be fair, I’m not sure who is lowering the quality of the air more, the endless stream of Number 22 buses, or the assorted output of the denizens of the curvy benches in the Kirkgate. On any given day, they produce an interesting array of pollutants including fag smoke, the fumes from tonic wines and super strength lager, and the contribution of a selection of gaseous dogs, who regularly produce industrial levels of methane.

It is indeed a luxurious marvel, our new Number 10, gliding around our city like a galleon. It is clean and spic and span inside, and it would be nice if it stayed that way for a while. For example, it would be great if the seats, which are comfortable and chic, remained free of the muck of the streets. Now, we can do this quite easily by not putting our feet, shod in dirty shoes, on the seats. I know! It’s simple, but effective. Perhaps a little sign could be erected to remind the forgetful? Oh there is.

We should invite Jeremy Clarkson to ride our sleek hybrid bus to give us his informed opinion about our new public transport. As a guide, we could offer one of the Fit’o’The Walk crew, who would probably express a few informed opinions about Mr Clarkson to Mr Clarkson. Now that would be a bus ride to remember.

Ayrshire-hardened reporter shows no fear on her return to action

Oh, and I couldn’t help but notice the minute young Ms Doublebarrelled-Slightlyposh finished her breathless piece for BBC London, she was replaced by a far more relaxed local lass to speak to Jackie Bird for the benefit of viewers in Scotland.

Not only did the weather hold no particular fear for our home-grown variety, she didn’t seem to be particularly fazed by having to report from Saltcoats. Bet she’s been paddling there.

Giant buggies are a wheel menace

Now I realise that you are a mum and things are tough (and, guess what, they don’t get easier. Sorry) but that doesn’t excuse you from the normal rules of courtesy.

For example, should you be the proud owner of one of those massive three-wheeled baby buggies that looks like something that could withstand the impact of being parachuted from a C-17A Globemaster into Helmand then, please, make sure people on any of our buses can get past.

I appreciate how precious your little bundle is but, likewise, my mum’s hip is fairly precious. And not just to mamma and me, but also to the NHS, which clearly thought that she was worth the cost of keeping mobile.

Just think how annoyed her surgeon would be if all that work, care and physiotherapy went totally Titanic because some mum hadn’t noticed the wheels on her buggy had turned into a trip trap for the elderly.

Saltcoats strikes a blow to those pesky hurricanes

They told us the storms were going to be bad, but I was unprepared for the full horror until BBC London said: “Let’s get over to Samantha Doublebarrelled-Slightlyposh and find out what the situation is in Saltcoats.”

Saltcoats? Good grief. As a survivor of Saltcoats, I can tell you now that few people would go there voluntarily.

Bless, it was once a roaring wee town during the Glasgow Fair, when hordes of peely-wally Weegies would entrain en masse for the sun, sand and fish suppers. Those days and that money have gone, whisked away by Ryanair, leaving poor Saltcoats unloved and abandoned.

Until this week, when the BBC turned it into a symbol of resistance.

Things looked bleak. There stood our young reporter fresh from London, shouting into the camera about 70mph winds, whilst waves crashed over the prom and rain came hurtling in horizontally. Samantha Doublebarrelled-Slightlyposh maintained her cool even though her fringe was just being ruined. The situation was grim, dire and desperate.

In the background, a Saltcoats family was out in matching rainwear walking their dog and two mad youngsters were running along the prom through the waves.

Saltcoats. The town that blew off a hurricane.