Monkeying around with old friends can cure your allergies

LAST week I went to see my old pal Patsy in Easterhouse. She was having tea with her Auntie Katie – a bizarre old woman who comes out with gems of stories now and then. Here's what happened that day.

"Do you remember when people used to keep a horse in the house?" old Aunty Katie said in between supping tea.

It was not really a big conversation starter, as I don't know anyone who may have owned a horse, far less kept it in their lobby. So I sat quietly waiting for the punch line.

My pal Patsy nodded and answered: "Yeah, years ago when we lived in a single end in Bernard Street, I remember my ma throwing the five of us into the recess bed and pulling over the curtain. Then we heard a clip-clop noise. When we pulled back the curtain – a horse was standing beside our cooker."

I sat there agog.

Now, Sandra and Auntie Katie are a tad older then me, but when and where in Glasgow did people forsake a cat and drag a pony into their hearth?

Still waiting on the punch line, I asked: "Are you joking? A horse beside your cooker?"

"No, it's true, Janey. An old uncle of ours stole it from a farm in Blantyre and kept it in our single end before he sold it on."

Patsy nodded.

Katie went on: "My granny used to have a wee horse called Shiloh. She kept it in the back bedroom. It pulled the cart that delivered milk and she rented it out to other people. It had the same birthday as me. I remember that it once bit the head off our budgie."

When people talk calmly about keeping bird-biting horses in their house, it unsettles me. I feel the need to one-up them on the story and declare that my mum kept a kangaroo in our coal bunker, but I was worried to suggest this in case that was normal in the tenements of Bernard Street. Maybe everyone had a kangaroo in their house back in the 1950s?

"Were there any other strange animals in your house?" I asked Patsy.

"No," she replied. "Not unless you count the time I saw a crocodile in big Chic's bath… But, as far as I know, he never had a horse."

Katie perked up at this…

"Yeah, that crocodile was the size of my big blue ironing board. Remember we measured it?"

If I didn't know them I would say they were liars, but they wouldn't tell such tall tales. And I did know about the crocodile story already.

We all sat quietly as I tried desperately to think of a funny animal story. I hate being left out of bizarre anecdotes. But, before I could concoct a decent tale, Patsy added: "Remember, years ago, you couldn't move for kittens? Everyone had a bag of kittens. People drowned them back then as they couldn't afford to feed them. But you don't see weans with bags of kittens at all nowadays, do you?"

Auntie Katie added: "No, you never see kittens anymore. Remember that old man who lived in a caravan near Vinegar Hill? He used to keep monkeys. I always wanted a monkey, but apparently I was allergic to monkeys."

I looked at both my old mates and seriously wondered if they had taken some Class A drugs and were now tripping. From horses in your house to crocodiles, killing kittens and now monkeys. I had no idea how this conversation had started.

"Auntie Katie, how did you know you were allergic to monkeys?" I asked.

"Whenever I went near that old man and the caravan, my mammy said I would scream the place down and go bright red. So I must have been allergic to the monkey."

"Did you ever touch the monkey?"

"No, but that old man was bit creepy. He liked to sit you on his knee and I think he was a bit dodgy."

"Well, then," I suggested, "maybe it was the old man you were scared of and somehow it was you telling your mum that you didn't like the old 'touchy' man. It was probably nothing to do with monkeys."

"You know, you might be right!" she shouted. "I love monkeys and I am probably not allergic to them at all! Why don't we organise a trip to Edinburgh Zoo?"

So we are planning a day out to the zoo in April, because my two old pals lead such dull lives – according to them – and a wee day out will give us all something to talk about.

When a night out turned into a night in

I WAS in London last week and got dressed up to go out for the night with my mate Monica; we planned to have some drinks at the Groucho.

I lay on her sofa as she got her make-up on and then woke hours later still dressed in my new outfit, but with mascara-stuck eyes. I had dribbled down my chin and my bra was cutting my ribs in half. My tummy-support tights had stopped my blood supply and my feet were numb. I thought I had taken a wee stroke.

"What happened? Why didn't you wake me up?" I moaned, and saw Monica sitting in her pyjamas.

"You were fast asleep and you looked so peaceful I left you," she laughed.

"You could have pulled off these tights," I said. "I can't move my legs."

"You're a pal, but I won't pull your tights off," she replied.

Never bemoan the comforts of home

I HAD just arrived in Leicester by train from London on Friday and the hotel wasn't ready for check-in. I was tired and walked out in a strop.

Then I sat down on a park bench with a cup of tea and my bags at my legs. A wee skinny man wrapped up in his sleeping bag stopped and asked me: "Are you homeless?"

"No, I am waiting for my hotel room to get ready," I answered.

I explained I was a comedian who travelled all over the country either waiting to get in to a room… or stood in railway stations after I had been checked out.

"If I had a home, I would never leave it in this freezing weather," he said.

He was right. These cold winters can kill the homeless.

I am lucky I have a room everywhere I go. I am never moaning again about it.

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