Folsom Prison Blues

Act I

Aberdeen got ALL of the rain for ALL of the day, which will be forever known in my family as the day of the Danestone Monsoon. So obviously this was also the day we had agreed to help mum at her open air fundraising stalls. Thunder and lighting on arrival was really not tickety boo but she was a woman determined. She has to fund the gifts for fortnightly speakers and an annual trip to some far flung scottish history site (with obligatory high tea on the return journey) for 70 very demanding OAP's that together, make up the mighty Danestone History Group. You don't mess with 70 OAPs. Most of which are ex-teachers. That's a double whammy.

By the point our skin started pruning up, our undercrackers were retaining two tonnes of rainwater and we were pining to swim in the North Sea because it would have been warmer, she started to talk the language of defeat. So we abandoned ship a wee bit early in case we floated down the River Don.

Act II
Had my arm twisted at the last minute by two mischief makers to yeahaaa the hoohaa out of a hog roast hoedown at Thainstone mart. All part of a 4th July big night out with some other local mums on the back of the apples' of our eyes leaving primary school. And all arranged by straight talking and gun slinging organisers that put my disarray management skills at work to shame.

So there I was, a vegetarian at a hog roast, a country and western music hater at a hoedown, a beyonce funk dancer with a line dancing allergy in slosh Central, an outsider amidst members of the notorious Newmachar Mums Massive, the glam posse with attitude, some of whom I suspected to be cunningly skilled in new world social etiquette - like overcoming the pesky need to remember anyones name by calling everyone babe instead, or by kicking literacy to the kerb and replacing the letter s with z. Who needs S's anyway, totally overrated I say. "Elaine Zinclair". Sounds much more exotic. I can see the attraction.

Eased in gently and chaperoned by the genuinely lovely Val and Tracey and several other friendly faces, we all of us embraced the checked shirt and cowgirl hat theme, gave it laldy in the photo booth, and, admitedly after about 10 rounds, I eventually went on the bucking bronco. Granted, I was clearly not as graceful as the other mums, who are blessed with far better physiques and fitness muscles than I, in fact it was quite something to heave myself up and straddle that bad boy, (at least I think it was a boy robot), but I did it. Although it probably was more a case of Buckling Bronco for all of the 5 seconds I bravely palm burned myself by gripping on so tightly before being flung off. Everyone was well drunk by that point to witness my fail, or so i hope, Val's videoing notwithstanding.

Talking of Val, she rightly outed me as a closet Johnny Cash fan as I inexplicably knew loads of the songs (I was almost sad they didn't play "When the man comes around" or his cover of Nine Inch Nails Hurt or Fulsom Prison Blues, how I know these songs, I've no idea). Meanwhile, Tracey was addicted to the photo booth and made me laugh all night.

By the end of the night, the lady in the saloon hostess outfit that was possibly a number of sizes too small for her womanly ways, (although, note to self, possible nifty alternative to spanx) who was cruelly denied the microphone being turned on when she stormed the stage to do, well, I don't know what she was gojng to do, seemed actually normal. Sort of. And those sloshing ladies, young and old, man they know their stuff, mesmerising to watch, they have a country and western line dancing version of everything, even the Gay Gordons. Total respect to the dedicated line dancing ladies of the North East of Scotland, I may not be joining you but I salute your skilzzzz.

Thanks to Louise and her pal, our bus home arrived on queue to take the merry band home. Yeehaa!