Susan Morrison: The truth is out there and now I'm terrified

Published on Friday 12 March 2010 09:29

THERE is something going on. I started to notice it when I was forced to park in the centre of town, something I usually try to avoid like the plague or Dale Winton.

Naturally, the only parking space on Albany Street is only three millimetres longer than my car. However, a long apprenticeship served in narrow colonies streets teaches even klutzes like me how to park in tiny spaces, but it's still a faff.

A young gallant man came – nay, leapt – to my aid and started that arm waving and car punching thing you do to help direct cars reversing. I successfully completed my manoeuvre, as my old driving instructor used to say when he wasn't chewing handfuls of indigestion tablets and fiddling with his worry beads.

I got out of the car and discovered my helpful hero was – and I suggest you sit down before reading this – a parking attendant.

Yes, my people, I do not lie. A charming young chap in a fluorescent jacket and a cheery disposition and with the words "Parking Attendant" on his peaked cap, where, as an old mate of mine used to say, there should be the words "Legally Empowered To Mug Drivers". I pointed out to my old chum that you'd need a head the size of Castle Rock to fit all that in.

But there we have a parking attendant actually attending to parking. Not only had he assisted a taxpayer into a parking space, he then politely pointed out where the ticket machine was and then wandered off whistling, yes whistling, as if he were blissfully unaware that in a choice between being stranded in a lift with a parking attendant or The Most Flatulent Man In Scotland, most folks would go for Captain Methane.

And then, just when the ironing board is set up, my coffee is hot and Jeremy Kyle is bellowing: "And now those all important DNA results," the door bell rings.

Two lovely ladies were standing there, and they startled me by asking to speak to Susan Morrison. "Oh," I said, "that's me." No point in denying it. I mean, I could have claimed I was Fatima the Portuguese au pair, which I have done on occasion, but these ladies didn't look like the terribly earnest young man clutching a devotional book who rang the door bell last week to tell me Satan was alive and well and living in Edinburgh. I said I wasn't surprised and I think he works for TIE. There's a reason for all those deep holes. Only I said it in a Portuguese accent, so I don't think he understood.

Anyway, I ushered the two ladies into the living room. They were from the NHS, they said. "The government sent us round to make sure you're all right," which I thought nice, but a bit sinister. Are they checking up to see when they could expect to take delivery of my kidneys, perhaps?

My nurses were very sweet and very sincere. They talked to me the way worried nurses do on Casualty, you know, leaning towards you and looking very concerned. Was I concerned about my health? They asked, concerned. I tried to look concerned, too, but I know I just wound up looking cross-eyed.

The one on the left made a note, the one on the right took looking concerned to a new level. The one on the left asked me about "coming in for a check" and the one on the right noticed I had gone cross-eyed and promptly took the gold for Scotland in the Sustained Concentrated Concern Solo Event.

I gently assured them I was fine as far as I knew, wasn't depressed and serenely unaware of my cholesterol levels. But, between you and me, my paranoia levels are soaring because they called later that evening to be concerned again by phone.

Next time Fatima opens the door. . .

And then, on Tuesday, whilst strolling by the Water of Leith, avoiding the pit bull terriers and the kamikaze cyclists, I noticed what looked like a very large squirrel bounding from branch to branch with the speed of a dodgy bank manager trying to cover his tracks.

Then, to my astonishment, and yes, good people, I was astonished, the large squirrel slid into the water and swam away.

Now, could I have seen an otter, or can squirrels actually swim? And are squirrels waterproof? If not, did I see a squirrel in a wet suit? Is it a mutation triggered by pollution? Is this a mutant scuba diving squirrel? I tell you, now I'm concerned.

One more thing. Someone had vandalised a bus stop on Great Junction Street. I called the council. Elaine from the council was unbelievably helpful. The bus stop was cleaned within the hour.

Parking attendants who help you park, the NHS trying to keep you healthy – if a bit freaked out – mysterious amphibious creatures in the Water of Leith spotted amidst the sinking shopping trolleys, and the council being helpful and doing a good job.

Can anyone else hear The X Files theme?