Susan Morrison: To sleep, perchance to dream of heavy blankets

My usual reply is, on the left-hand side with occasional forays to the right to punch the Grumpy Yorkshireman to stop him snoring. I have been known to strike out to that side even when sleeping alone, so ingrained is the ­habit. Mind you, the rumbling Northerner has his uses. On one occasion, I fell out of bed precisely because he wasn’t there to stop me rolling over.

I have to say, I think I’ve got this sleeping thing cracked. Like ­everyone else, I’ve had the odd night staring at the clock whilst the gremlins of ­anxiety whirl my brain into Worryland Themepark, featuring the Moodswing Rollercoaster, which mirrors the rise, fall, and further fall, of my bank balance. But, generally, it’s lights out, eyes shut and off to Sleepy Mountain.

I have every sympathy with pals who can’t sleep. It’s debilitating, no doubt about it, and they’ll try anything, even these new ‘heavy blankets’.

For those that don’t know, heavy blankets are specially weighted. They say they give you the impression of ­being hugged or embraced. They are, we are told, the Very Latest Thing.

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, young Millennial types, but clearly you did not experience a Scottish childhood prior to 1975. In those days, no child was abed without at least one sheet, four blankets, a candlewick bedspread and, deployed on very cold nights, a quilt. The sheets could be cotton, but by the time the Space Race hit us, nylon was the way ahead. The full glory of man-made fibres married with cutting edge dyes ensured shut eye for Scottish kids. Opening your eyes unexpectedly to acid yellow and neon blue paisley patterned sheets could damage young retinas for life.

Nylon, be it bri- or brushed, had a side effect. On cold dry nights it gave you electric shocks. You could see the static crackle. This was not considered a flaw by our parents. Far from it. It was something to revel in. This was the modern world, where getting into bed would briefly resemble that moment on Star Trek just before they beamed down where they all faintly glowed for a second, but with your hair standing on end.

These modern sheets, however, were combined with traditional blankets. Wool. Weighty. Seriously thick.

No one ever seemed to buy these blankets. They circulated around Scottish families like genetic traits. Some of our blankets came from my Auntie Suzie’s house when she moved to ­Dunoon to look after her sister in the mid-60s. She got those blankets from some relative just after the First World War. My mum gave some of our blankets to my Auntie Jane. Then my gran gave us some of hers. Peak blanket ­balance had been achieved.

At night, children were slid into the crackle of a nylon sheet. The entire output of a Scottish wool mill was hefted over the child and then, and this was the most important bit, the entire construction was tucked in with vim and vigour. Imagine clingfilm over a sausage roll. Got it? There we go.

The candlewick would land with a flourish and that was usually the cue for the good night kiss, or, if it was dad, a tickle with a scratchy chin.

Scottish kids lay pinioned under ­layer upon layer of bedding, secure and safe in the knowledge that they were warm and cosy, even if breathing was tad constricted.

Also, they couldn’t get out of bed for the life of them, so any notion they might have had about going greetin’ downstairs for glasses of water whilst mum and dad had a sneaky Embassy Regal and a wee Martini were effectively kiboshed.

Heavy blankets, the latest thing indeed.

Ignore emails and you feel a right pudden’

Thanks go to the fabulous people behind the fantastic Leith Festival Burns Night Supper.

Naturally, I did my level best to screw up all the careful planning. I am a woman, invited to speak at a Burns Supper.

Doughball here assumes it’s the Reply from the Lassies, and doesn’t bother to check emails, because she’s a massive idiot, and turns up to discover it’s the Immortal Memory. I think I got away with it . . .

Sandy Crombie of Crombies the butchers is not just a great purveyor of fine meat, he’s also a brilliant interpreter of those great lines “Fair fa’ yer honest sonsie face”.

For the very first time in my life I watched someone toast a haggis he’d actually made, and let me tell you, my friends, that haggis worth drawing a dirk for.

Community Burns Nights are the best.

We left just as the dancing was getting athletic, if you know what I mean.