I’m in Scotland for a bit of a mixed bag of a weekend. It’s the first time I’ve seen my Dad since his 70th birthday, my friend is over from Australia with her new baby girl, and tomorrow is Mother’s Day (which means my sister and her family are coming to my parents’ house and my Mum is treated to producing a four-course meal for the seven of us – ooooh, how we spoil her).
Anyway.
Today I got to catch up with my two best friends from school – one of whom is now all married and babied up in Australia, and the other who lives in Glasgow and finds herself in a similar situation to myself.
We caught up on the gossip and each other’s family news, heard about childbirth (which sounds more and more unpleasant to me), laughed a lot, and then all asked each other, “So, have you heard?”
Yes, the talk of the town in the suburb of Glasgow where I grew up had reached us all independently.
And it’s big news. Huge.
Our junior school headmistress is getting married. Now, bear in mind that we left junior school 21 years ago.
She is 77 years old. And she finally met the man of her dreams.
How awesome is that?
Pizza of Doom 
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