Coronavirus: Don’t whack me with a baton, Frank! I’ve got carte blanche to walk on Ferry Road – Susan Morrison

The triumphant text from mum summed it up: “Been out. Was careful. Got spinach and parsnips. Good haul!” I could practically hear the Ride of the Valkyries in the background.

Peter Lorre in Casablanca might have preferred to get a ticking off from Lord Provost Frank Ross (Picture: Moviestore/Shutterstock 1565930a)

The image of my mother bearing down on the checkout of the local Scotmid holding aloft bags of greens like a deranged vitamin-C hunting Norse goddess was hard to shift.

She shouldn’t have been out, I retorted by text. My mother, however, has two failsafe cures for just about any ailment. A wee ten-minute lie down and a donder out in the fresh air.

It’s no use me telling her to stay in, when even Boris, a man who’s clearly as comfortable in the glare of the ­midday sun as a busload of vampires, tells us that we should go out once a day for exercise.

Admittedly, this was enough to send many of my fellow Scots into a tailspin. Was this exercise compulsory? Once a day? Every day? As a nation, we’ve had issues with the whole let’s get physical movement for a while.

We once might have cried, “Step we gaily and on we go! Arm in arm and heel for toe”, but these days if Mhairi wanted a crowd at the wedding she’d need to lay on a coach and a stretch limo.

I had an excuse to get out, and I was thrilled. Months ago, appointments had been made by the NHS to have me scanned and probed and have ­needles stuck in various bits, and all this was at my good friend, the ­Western General.

It’s about a 45-minute walk from Leith. Now that’s a donder. I filled my little water bottle, donned my little backpack and set off like a little explorer.

Despite assurance from Boris that I could go out, I was still a bit unsure. After all, things could change in a heartbeat. We’ve all seen footage of Spanish police whacking people from a safe distance. I assume they’ve issued longer batons for the duration. Channel 4 showed film of Italian ­mayors shouting beautiful sounding abuse at sanction-busting citizens.

The last thing I wanted was for Lord Provost Frank Ross to suddenly pop up and give me a ticking off on Ferry Road. He’s bound to have more important things to do right now.

So, I carefully folded my appointment letter and put it in my pocket to wave at anyone who asked to see my papers. For a spilt-second I felt like Peter Lorre’s character in Casablanca. I had the famous carte d’ passage that would let me through and on the plane to freedom, or, at the very least, if I got fed up, on the No 21 to Crewe Toll.