Susan Morrison: Night out is all in planning

Yorkshire husband needs to sync the party start time to our arrival with precision. Picture: TSPL
Yorkshire husband needs to sync the party start time to our arrival with precision. Picture: TSPL
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We have received an invitation to a social event. This has occasioned much excitement for myself, and the Yorkshire husband. We intend to attend together.

We tend not to go out much together these days. Well, there are the romantic moments we share as we trolley dash around Tesco, but actually going out together, both us, at the same time, dressed to impress, just sitting across from each other in a fancy restaurant, possibly in candlelight? No, we don’t do much of that. 
It’s not that we don’t enjoy each other’s company. We do, it’s just that we have inexorably turned into the sort of mad old folk you see in matching rainwear standing by steam trains and beam engines admiring the piston action. That’s our idea of ­romance.

Anyway, he doesn’t like candle–lit restaurants. He thinks they may have something to hide, or they haven’t paid the bill.

Now, back in the days when the girlies like me all ran about wearing shoulder pads and extreme eye shadow, which made the Number 12 bus to work look like it was transporting squads of cross-dressing American quarterbacks, he and I would just stride out, footloose and fancy free.

Things have changed. The shoulder pads have gone, and so has the spontaneity. Now he needs to know what time the party starts. Exactly what time. It’s not enough for me to say ‘around about half past sixish’, he apparently needs to sync the party start time to our arrival with the precision deployed by Force 10 from Navaronne tasked with taking out the guns before the invasion fleet sailed past.

He’s currently examining the bus app to ensure that our journey is as swift and efficient as a state visit from a minor despot who for some reason has announced a wish to travel by Lothian Transport up The Bridges.

I’ve told him where the venue is, roughly. I know where it is. Sort of. I mean, how lost can you get in a very small Old Town street?

Nope, we’ve had the invite printed out and the address scrutinised. Various suggestions have been made regarding the route, with a Shackleton-like attention devoted to any potential dangers in our path, including road works, dodgy pavements and random blokes panhandling for spare change leaping from darkened doorways who may or may not startle us as we promenade to our destination.

It’s like taking a Vulcan to Disneyland.