A True Saint
In 300 years, if you were to be named the patron saint of X, what would you like X to be? Places, activities, objects — all are fair game.
The Patron Saint of Tough Old Bags. I’ve set my heart on it.
Am I qualified?
If you’d been watching the Meikle Soap Opera over the years, you’d realise it leaves the competition for dead. You know the sort I mean. Can’t name any off the top of my head – why would I watch them when I’ve got my own on tap 24/7, in full glorious technicolour and free to boot? – but I’m talking about the ones that every week reach new heights of drama, chaos, weird, wonderful, outrageous and frankly unbelievable. That’s us.
And if you’re playing senior female in this genre – the Matriarch, as it were – you need the hide of a rhinoceros, the patience of Job, medical qualifications, first prize in Master Chef and an honours degree in crisis management. I admit a few of these need polishing, in my case, but since I’m not allowed to die until I’m 90, I should have them well under control by the time canonisation rolls around.
But above all, the Matriarch has to be tough. No sooky weeping over disaster, no spineless evasions, no being ‘too tired’ or ‘too upset’. You front up. You deal. You don’t suffer fools gladly, and you can sniff out fake at a hundred paces.
I’ve no doubt there thousands out there equally qualified for this honour – possibly even better qualified – but you asked, so I’m staking my claim. That way, even if I’m pipped at the post, there’ll one more tick on the list for my preferred epitaph: