Susan Morrison: We 80s Madonna fans changed our image too

OMG girlfriend! Madge is coming to town! Yah, totally, the Queen of Pop at Murrayfield. What a pity we couldn’t have ol’ Madge popping up there on Saturday, by the way. They do that sort of thing in America at the Superbowl football game, which, as far as I understand it, is rugby with body armour.

Madge at Murrayfield might have livened up proceedings at the Scotland-England game no end. Our half-time entertainment seemed to consist of members of the crowd rubbing each other vigorously to keep warm. Oh, and the sight of major broadcasters running rings around themselves because someone asked a politician to comment on the game.

The Material Girl and I go back to the 80s, when legwarmers were cool and it was no great fashion folly to sport neon green tights with a neon pink tutu. The girls were worse.

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Of course, Madonna turned away from dayglo years ago and constantly reinvented herself.

Those of us who can remember dancing around our handbags to Like a Prayer also have a different image now. The high heels are only for special occasions, and oh, do our feet hurt ten minutes in.

At the bottom of the wardrobe there might be those yellow jeans with the tiny waist (we can’t even get them over our thigh now!) and that T-shirt sporting a comment from someone called Frankie. When we put our make-up on now, we avoid looking at the lines encroaching upon our eyes and our lipstick runs into little tributaries round our lips.

Madge’s face has remained eerily smooth and her body looks like the sort of thing the Eastern Bloc used to turn out at the Olympics. But I bet she still fits her 80s jeans.

Yeah, Madonna’s coming to town. But you know what, I might not bother. It would be like going to one of those terrible American-style High School reunions to find out that the Prom Queen still looks great and you’ve got stains on your straining waistband.

My bold adventurer shows true grit come holiday time

It’s that time of the year when he and I lock horns about the holiday situation. For a man dedicated to routine, he has a tendency to develop adventurous leanings when the annual break comes up. One year, we wound up thundering around southern California in an RV. On another occasion, he suddenly announced he wanted to go pony trekking. This from a man who had barely even seen a horse before. I warned him. They don’t have engines, I said. Don’t try to open it up to see what makes it go. My strongest memory is pulling his incredibly uncooperative horse out of various hedges and howling with laughter as he spent three days walking like John Wayne.

Now he’s looking at some sort of boating arrangement on the Norfolk Broads.

He’s going to Cornwall.

It’s no Sahara marathon but you have got to sand it to mum

Last year, mum went cyborg when they replaced her hip with something they’d knocked up out of titanium steel. The operation was a stonking success, but her body had adjusted to walking about at an odd, painful angle. This drastically curtailed mum’s favourite occupation – shopping.

To retrain the body, she’s been off to the physio, a charming young lady who has the sort of endless positivity I saw recently in a documentary about war-mangled servicemen learning to walk again. The soldiers were interviewed about their progress. One was thrilled to be able to walk about 100 metres, another was planning the West Highland Way and a third was hoping to complete a marathon through the Sahara Desert.

So far, we’ve been measuring mum’s progress by the British Heart Foundation Shop in Great Junction Street, the St Columba’s Hospice Shop in Leith Walk and we are aiming (deep breath) to tackle a round trip – Fit o’ the Walk, John Lewis back to Lidl – in the summer. It’s not the Marathon des Sables, but can you buy a nearly new cashmere cardi for only £7.50 in the desert? No, you cannot.

Knock knock trams into shape

It came as a great surprise to me to discover the power of the objector in Edinburgh. Margaret Cherry probably got a bit of a shock as well when she discovered that the objection of just one person meant she’d have to take down her own front door and replace it with something “more fitting”.

This isn’t a revolving door that lights up and plays Madonna’s greatest hits at ear-splitting volume when it spins round. It’s just a black door with a glass panel.

But, more to the point, where is this objector when we needed him – or her – most?

Where was SuperObjector when the trams got under way? Why did SuperObjector not fly through the wall of the City Chambers, cape fluttering, to crush this crazy caper?