DCSIMG

Dorfy on the stress of Christmas shopping

WHEN the stress of Christmas shopping starts getting to you, console yourself with the thought that it was no different for our dialect writer Dorfy.

In one of her later pieces, Prisints For Me, Mrs Dorothy Samuelson-Sandvid laments the temptations on her purse.

This is an extract but please print it out or cut it out of tonight's Gazette if you wish to keep it.

INSTEED o' thinkin' aboot watt t' buy for other folks, Aa've been thinkin' aboot watt Aa wud like t' get mesel'.

The warst on't is, the things Aa want cannit be bowt. So thor's nee hope o' findin' them in me stockin' on Christmas mornin'.

F'rinstance, one thing Aa want is a pooda-compact-size addin' machine, or a porse wiv a alarm-bell, t' use when Aa gan inte them self-sorvice shops.

Thor's an aad sayin' that says the divil gans t' chorch ivry Sunda', an' 'e sits in the choir. Well Aa knaa wheor 'e gans on week-da's. 'E's in them self-sorvice shops.

Suppose y' want a packet o' salt. It's not wawth gannin' inte yor usual shop an' stannin' waitin' yor ton when it's jist one thing y' need.

So y' pop intiv a self-sorvice shop. Y' divvent see onny salt so y' waalk roond, fillin' yor basket as y' gan wi' the things y' dee see - temptin' things like straaberry mooses an' pig's cheek.

Y' even pop a tin o's nails inte yor basket - not that y've ivvor et snails, or intend t' eat snails; but y' think it wud impress some extra posh guests if y' axed 'or casually wad like a French snail t' dip in 'or creme-de-menthe.

An' b' the time y' get t;' the pay coonter, y've tyuk that much,y' cannit afford the packet o' salt y' had forgot aboot, cass yo're stony-broke.

Y' see watt Aa mean? Somebody shud invent some sort o' alarm that wud waarn y' when t' knock-off spendin'.

Another prisint Aa wud appreciate wud be a pair o' gloves wi' tin finger-tips. Aa shudda when Aa think o' the hundreds o' gloves Aa' ve ruined wi' opening zips an' porses an' handbags.

If y' hev wullen gloves, the' aall ripple oot. If y' hev for gloves, it's nee time at aall till the forst finger is baald an' yor thumb's got the mange.

An' if y' hev kid gloves, the threed o' the stitchin' gets catched in the zip, an' the day'll come when yo're sittin' in the bus an' y' suddenly finnd yorsel' wiv a little heap o' kid strips an' gussets on yor lap!

 
 
 

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