SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT...

Illustration by MICHAEL FOREMAN

All children, except one, grow up.  They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this.  One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother.  I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this forever!"  This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up.  You always know after you are two.  Two is the beginning of the end.

So wrote author J. M. BARRIE in the opening paragraph of PETER PAN.  And it's true; I know because I had a similar experience when I was three or four years old.  My mother had been outlining my future to me one day, probably preparing me for when I'd be starting primary school.  "And what happens then?" I asked, curious about what lay before me.  There then followed a description of the different stages of my life to which I could 'look forward', interspersed at each pause with "And what happens then?" from myself.  Eventually, having worked through my life from primary school to adulthood, she rested from her labours, thinking her duty done.

"And what happens then?" I again enquired, tenacious infant that I was.  She thought for a moment before replying  "Then you grow old."  The inevitable "And what happens then?" from me.  "Then you die," she said, simply.  I had no concept of death, so persisted.  "And what happens then?"  I was like a broken record, but probably more grating.  "Nothing happens then - when you're dead, you're dead," she said, matter-of-factly. 

(I should perhaps here mention that my mother's response was a surprising one, given her own beliefs.  She went to church and sent me and my brother to Sunday school, and did, in fact, subscribe to the concept of the afterlife, though probably more from a superstitious point of view than from an informed one.  I can only assume that she regarded such an idea beyond my young powers of comprehension, and was speaking merely from the physical perspective.)

This greatly disturbed me, and when I was put to bed that evening, I couldn't sleep.  I eventually made my way downstairs, repeating "I don't want to die, I don't want to die!" over and over again.  It's no exaggeration to say that the notion of total oblivion had traumatised me.  My parents did their best to console me, saying that death was a long way off and that I shouldn't be concerned with it.  I eventually calmed down, but could never quite escape the dark shadow of the fate that loomed ahead of me.  I decided there and then that if growing up meant growing old, and growing old meant dying, then I would simply never grow up!  I'd be a child forever. I stated aloud my determination and was then put back to bed, where sleep eventually claimed me.

Henceforth, whenever any friends of my parents would ask me (as friends of parents inevitably will) what I was going to be when I grew up, before I could even answer, my parents would respond with "He's not going to grow up, he's going to be just like Peter Pan!"  (This happened on more than one occasion.)  It was therefore surprising when I picked up J. M. Barrie's book in my thirties to find a similar experience to my own recounted in its opening pages.  How amazing is that?  A story about a boy with whom I'd been compared from an early age, and the very first paragraph resonates immediately.  Curiously, like WALT DISNEY's version of the character (though it's not in the book), I've never been able to click my fingers.

It's rather apt, then, that in my teenage years, my nickname became 'Kid', which I've been called ever since.  (The story behind that can be found here.)  Not everyone who knew me was aware of the appellation though, only a particular group of friends and acquaintances (and their families) who lived in my neighbourhood.  When I started freelancing for IPC's 2000 A.D. in 1985, I used it in the credit boxes because it was easier to fit in the allocated space.

"Two is the beginning of the end."  However, I refuse to grow old.  I'm going to be a "boy eternal" (as SHAKESPEARE put it) and try my best to retain what KENNETH GRAHAME calls "the spirit of youth" within me.  In the end, of course, it may not stave off expiration, but life is a hell of a lot more fun along the way.

  

CHILDHOOD CAPERS - CHAPTER FOUR: CHEEKY & JOEY...

Have you ever met someone and become friends, only to learn much later that, when younger, they lived near to you or even attended the same school in a previous neighbourhood?  If you're anything like me (I'd imagine that not many people are), you can't help but wonder if your paths might've crossed before without either of you knowing or remembering.  Y'know, like standing in the same queue in a local shop, or in the same bus shelter or whatever.  So, with that in mind, "I wanna tell you a story."

(Cue wavy lines as we indulge in a flashback.) My father once had a pair of budgies, Cheeky and Joey.  For some unstated reason, he eventually decided to part with them, though I suspect it may've been because he'd read an article saying that budgies carry diseases and so decided it was better to be safe than sorry.  I remember as I was leaving for primary school one day, my parents saying:  "You'd better say goodbye to the budgies - they won't be here when you get back."

I simply shrugged, but on reaching the back gate I was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of sadness and hurried back in to bid Cheeky and Joey au revoir.  Cut to many, many years later, and me and my pal Moonmando (whom you've seen comment on my other blog) were in that former neighbourhood and I pointed out my old house to him.  You can imagine my astonishment when he informed me that he and one of his brothers had once collected a pair of budgies in a cage from that very house.

I didn't meet Moony 'til around 2nd or 3rd year in secondary school, so to discover he'd actually been in my (by then) former house without me knowing was quite a surprise.  What's more, his brother had been in my class at primary school at some stage, though I never knew him then, or even remembered him.  In fact, it wasn't until I was looking at an old school photo (which you can see here) in adulthood that I recognised his brother - as, by this time, I had known them both for quite a number of years.  (Though learning they'd both once been in my old residence to collect our budgies came later.)

What's more, the realisation that I'd later visited their house many times without ever knowing it was the very domicile to which Cheeky and Joey had 'retired', was likewise a source of amazement to me.  This was a connection of which we'd all been previously unaware.  It goes without saying that Moony isn't anywhere near as impressed with this incident as I am (or at all in fact), but to me, it's one of those 'Astounding Tales' that makes life so interesting. (Then again, I always was easily impressed.)

So, anything like that ever happen to you?  Do tell!

PART FOURTEEN OF SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS: OVER THE HILL, BUT NOT QUITE OVER 'THE DALE'...

Nah, she wasn't this hot - almost

Her name was Miss Dale, and she was seriously sexy.  Small, blonde (update: nope - redhead actually, the ol' memory was playing tricks), early 20s, she usually wore a blue denim mini-skirt and also indulged in some serious sadism that too many teachers of the period were prone to.  She had a nasty habit of punching your arm several times to emphasise whatever point she was making, and I certainly wasn't the only kid who suffered from a bruised upper limb in her class. Where did such rage come from?

One day, she decided to test our spelling by reading out words to the class, so that we could then write them in our jotters to be marked by her diminutive, angry self.  One of the words she uttered was 'yawn', which, due to my familiarity with the Shakespearean-style of speech in MARVEL's THOR, I took to be 'yon' and thus wrote it in my jotter accordingly.  She then collected our efforts and sat at her desk to evaluate them, while we busied ourselves with something else.

After a while, she called me out to her desk and berated me for seemingly misspelling the word, then belted me with the tawse - solely for what she considered my lack of spelling ability, not because I was cheeky or anything.  50-odd years later, I now know just what an utterly inept teacher she was not to have considered the possibility that I'd been thinking of another, perfectly legitimate, phonetically similar word to the one she'd had in mind.

Her response should surely have been: "There are two words pronounced that way, define the one you mean."  Then it would've been a simple case of me explaining exactly what word I'd had in mind, and her then asking me to spell the other, the one she was looking for.  The fact was, I'd spelt the word properly, it was just a different word to the one she'd been thinking of.  And yet that glaringly obvious possibility never occurred to her.  What a thicko.

I did learn a few valuable lessons that day though.  Firstly, that teachers weren't always right; secondly, that Miss Dale, though sexy, was a bitch - and thirdly, there's no way clearly hormonal people should ever be tasked with imparting knowledge to any group of children, when their main method of teaching seems to consist of punching and belting them until they 'learn' things.

This was primary school, mind, so we're not talking about teachers having to deal with surly and unruly teenagers - we're talking children of only 8 or 9 years old. What the hell were educationalists thinking of back then?  As I've said before, kids today don't have a clue about just how lucky they are compared to ourselves.

As for Miss Dale?  I have absolutely no recollection of ever seeing her again after I left primary.  Maybe she left before I did.  However, it would be nice if she learned how to manage her anger issues and went on to become, at the very least, a competent (and kinder) teacher. The alternative simply doesn't bear thinking about.

TWO, FOUR, SIX, EIGHT - WITH WHAT DO YOU ASSOCIATE...?

'Association' is a subject I often ponder, on account of being fascinated with what it is that causes us to associate one thing with another.  Surely that's simple to understand, you say.  Our initial impressions are usually the strongest, so when we experience something for the very first time - a place or product for example - we'll associate it with who we were with on the day (and vice versa) or/and some other element relating to it.

That's broadly true, but perhaps there can be exceptions.  For example, my father once owned a NOBEL 200 car.  We lived in one house when he got it, but moved to another house not too long after, and he owned the car for far longer in the latter house than the former.  I therefore have more memories associated with the second, but my initial memories of the car are from the first, so perhaps they should be more prominent - and sometimes they are. 

However, that could be because the only photos of the car are from the former house, so I simply associate it with there in a sort of 'default' way.  Until, that is, the memories from the subsequent house reassert themselves and I'm reminded that I associate the Nobel with there at least as much (if not even more so) than its predecessor.  However, because of those two photos (one taken on the road outside the first abode, the other taken on holiday that same year), I suspect that my earlier memories may have been reinforced down through the years in a way that my later ones haven't.

I daresay that if I had photos of the car outside the second house, that would probably be my primary association of it, or at least, it would depend on which photo from which house I was looking at at any given time.  Same with comics I remember reading in the car.  Namely, an issue or two of TV CENTURY 21 from when I lived in the previous house, and at least one issue of FANTASTIC from when I lived in the next one.  My associations are different depending on just what comic I'm focussing on.

Anyway, no great insight here, I'm afraid.  I just wanted to throw that out there and see what 'echoes' come back.  Strike any cords with you?

    

JUST ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL...

When my old primary school was demolished in 2014, I'd known it was due to happen quite a few years before it actually did.  Not the precise date or year, but its fate had been determined and announced well in advance, in line with a policy of building new schools, then demolishing the old ones.  The building was structur-ally sound, as were most (if not all) of the other schools, but this way, land could be freed up for new housing.  It seems to me that the land used for building the new schools could've been utilised for housing, but what do I know?  I'm not a politician in pursuit of an agenda (or career).

I can't help but think that the neighbourhood is poorer for the original school's absence.  It added character and colour to the area, and was designed and built at the same time as the surrounding housing, back around 1963.  Now (from some angles) the place looks crowded and claustrophobic, and lacks the aesthetic charm it possessed when first completed.  I moved into the area in 1965, and I can still recall the early impressions it made on me as regards mood and atmosphere. That's now gone and hasn't existed for many a year, and I sometimes wonder how new residents perceive the place as far as 'character' goes.  My old neighbours from next door have lived there since their house was first built - maybe I should ask them for their perceptions on how the area has changed?

The school had a low wall around three sides of it, with railings on top, and I remember sometimes on my way home, if I had a toy car in my pocket, I'd run it along the flat top of the wall with my hand, or, holding on to the railings, walk along the wall as if I were balancing on a tightrope.  When the school was obliterated, I managed to rescue one of the bricks from the wall, near to where the main front gate was situated, and it now resides in my back porch until I decide exactly what I'm going to do with it.  At the moment it serves as a reminder of younger and happier times, and one glance at it returns me to my schooldays, when I had no sense of the future, or any idea that the neighbourhood wouldn't always be the same as it then was.

So many memories, so many years - all contained in just another brick in the wall.

LIVING IN A BUBBLE...

It was when we were on holiday in Ayr (I think), around 1963, that I acquired my first Bubble Car.  I've recounted this story before (on my other blog), but there's a reason for me repeating myself, which will become clear in a moment.  We were in an amusement arcade, and one of those 'grappling-hook' machines had a deep red Bubble Car on view.  My father had a go or two at securing it for me, but was unsuccessful.  The manager of the place, hearing my expression of disappoint-ment, invited me to follow him (with my family in tow) and made his way to the back of the arcade.  Pulling aside a curtain to a back storeroom, he opened a box and withdrew something, then presented me with my very own red Bubble Car.  I, of course, was ecstatic at my new acquisition.  To this day though, I can't recall if this was the start of my love affair with Bubble Cars, or it pre-existed before that particular presentation.  (I suspect the latter.)

Anyway, what's all that got to do with the price of cheese?  Simply this.  I just took possession of the above HEINKEL Bubble Car by OXFORD Diecast (1:18 scale), and though my 1963 version wasn't a Heinkel, it reminds me of the one I had in my infancy (which was a plastic, friction-drive, four-wheeled toy). I could've got a right-hand drive version, but not in red (only 'Roman Blue'), so I plumped for the left-hand drive model.  Great, innit?  Takes me right back to Ayr in 1963. Hey, that's some distance, so the 'miles-to-the-gallon' count is quite impressive.

Incidentally, the colour above is described as 'Spartan Red', but looks a bit orangey in these photos from eBay (probably the lighting or the flash).  The one below (also described as 'Spartan Red') better reflects what the actual colour looks like. So, while I gaze in rapt fascination at my new Bubble Car, I muse in a mildly melancholy manner on the one I owned 55 years ago.  Maybe one day I'll be able to track down a replacement, but in the meantime this one is very welcome.

SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - PART THIRTEEN: PUSHED IN A PUDDLE...

The scene of the 'crime':  The foot of the grassy slope, several feet along from the stairs.
The puddle was at the edge of the grass in the foreground.  The school is just out of view
on the right side of the photo

Me and Euan Shepherd weren't exactly what you'd call pals.  However, between classmates, there existed a kind of unwritten rule that it was acceptable, in the absence of one's usual friends, to pass the time in the company of whichever fellow pupil was available when required.  A sort of 'surrogate' pal in effect.

Such was the case on this particular day.  School had finished and Ewan and I found ourselves in each other's company as we exited from the school gates.  We made our way to his house, a mere two minutes (if) away from my own, to dump his schoolbag, but he met with an objection from his mother at going back out again.  He pleaded, begged, cried, and implored until his poor mother relented.  "15 minutes - no more!"

So we made our way to the swingpark beside a playing-field between our two houses.  On the way, we ran into his older sister (Laura Isobel by name), who enquired where he was going and why he wasn't already home.  She then took his hand and started to lead him back towards his house. Unsurprisingly, Ewan burst into tears and protested that he had permission to be out, but she was having none of it. I timidly piped up at the back "His mum said he could stay out for 15 minutes", whereupon she turned and looked at me as if I were a bad smell.

Then she simply shoved me hard in the chest.  I fell backwards and landed in a large muddy puddle.  As I lay there, spreadeagled and stunned into silence in my surprise, Ewan looked at me, ceased his crying, and burst into the irritating girlish giggle for which he was so renowned and ridiculed in equal measure.  Then he simply turned his back and accompanied his bitch of a sister home.  Treacherous b*st*rd! This was my reward for my intercession on his behalf?

I would've thought, at the very least, in shame at his sister's behaviour, he'd have assisted me to my feet and apologised for her shocking act, but no, Ewan found it highly amusing.  I was left on my own to extricate myself (with much squelching) from the sodden, muddy puddle and make my way home, there to explain my dufflecoat's soiled condition.

Needless to say, I took nothing to do with the wee pr*ck after that.  Even amongst 'fill-in' friends, a certain degree of loyalty was expected, and Ewan had been found sadly lacking and fallen at the first hurdle.  Perhaps to this day he looks back and wonders why he wasn't particularly popular at primary.  (Certainly not with me anyway.)

If so, guess what?  I could tell him!

Me and Ewan in a class photo.  He's standing on a kerb
behind me, hence the seemingly immense difference in
our height

HONEST - I ONCE HAD A 'NOBEL PRIZE'...

I've shown these photos before (on my other blog), but there's a reason for their re-appearance.  I'm unsure as to which of the photos was taken first (possibly the colour one), but both of them were snapped in 1965.  The colour picture was taken outside the house I recently regained entry to for the first time in 50 years, and the b&w pic was captured in Port Bannatyne when we holidayed there in May/ June of '65.  (That's #19 of TV CENTURY 21 I'm holding in my grubby paws.)

Look at the car though.  We had this car from 1964 to around 1969 or '70, and I remember reading early issues of TV21 right up to middle issues of FAN-TASTIC while being driven home from the shops after buying them.  The car is a NOBEL 200, the British version of the German FULDAMOBIL, and had a fibreglass chassis.  I only ever saw one other (at a distance), and though I've a strong impression that I was in our Nobel at the time, I now wonder if it might actually have been from our new vehicle (a RELIANT ROBIN) - which, if so, means it's entirely possible that what I saw was our own, former car.

However, let's not get bogged down with uncertainty at this stage. The point is that it was a rare car, and even without the photos, the licence number (77 JJO) was lodged in my brain from an early age.  That's mainly because, another house later, it matched our house number - 77 - and the JJO has a rhythm about it which is hard to forget. Looking back, it's the only number plate of the several cars my parents owned that I remember. I'd like to think it's still out there somewhere, owned by a collector, and wasn't consigned to oblivion many years ago.

I tend to regard it as a long-absent family member with whom I'd like to get reacquainted.  If, by some slim chance, any of you happen to know of its whereabouts, or how I could find out its fate, then let me know, eh?  It'd be nice to hear that it still exists.

******

Update: Managed to find and buy a limited edition, white metal model (1.43 scale) of the car on eBay. It was manufactured by a German company called BUDIG in around 2008.

ONCE THERE WERE GREEN FIELDS, PARCHED BY THE SUN - OR AT LEAST THERE USED TO BE - THEY'VE BEEN BUILT ON...

The fields were on the other side of the trees on the left of photo

How we first experience a place is usually how we imagine it's always going to be - how it always should be in fact.  That's how it is for me anyway.  Case in point, when my family moved into a new house in another area in 1983, on the other side of the path which ran by our house, was a huge field - then a road, and then another field.  And I believe there were even more fields beyond that.

That's how it was for the four years and three months we stayed there.  Several years after having moved away, I revisited the area and was surprised to see that a large housing estate had been built on the previously adjoining fields.  The sense of space was gone, and the neighbourhood now seemed over-developed, not to mention claustrophobic.  From my point of view, the absence of the fields ruined the area, and I was glad that when I lived there, I experienced it at its best.  In my memory, that's how the place should look - and still does whenever I think of it. (Just not when I revisit though.)

So do you feel the same about any place from your past where you lived or frequented when younger?  Do you lament any changes, or accept them with no qualms - or don't they matter to you one way or the other?  Should you feel the need to express yourselves, you know where the comments section is.

WHAT'S IN A NAME? ARE YOU KIDDING? A LIKELY STORY...

"Why are you called 'Kid'?  Is it because you act like one?"

If I had a pound for every time I've been asked that, I'd have - well, I'd have a pound actually, so I don't suppose there's really too much interest in the topic.  However, I have to fill this blog with something, so - assuming you'll all bear with me in yet another act of shameless self-indulgence - I shall address the issue in the forlorn hope that anybody even remotely cares.

There was a period during my early teenage years when I called everyone "kid".  It was short, snappy, and it meant never having to worry about remembering people's names.  One day, I ran into a pal of mine in the company of a group of his friends.  Anticipating my familiar, well-worn greeting, he thought he'd get in first in a daring act of mockery at my little peccadillo.  (Feel free to supply your own amusing rejoinder to that last sentence.)  "Hi Kid!" he said with a cheeky grin upon his smug countenance, immensely satisfied with himself for - in his mind - 'beating me to the punch'.

His pals were unaware of his intended 'irony' however, and merely assumed it to be my nickname.  But ours is a drama decreed by the fates to be acted out (always loved that line by LARRY LIEBER); I subsequently became friendly with that little group, who - in their innocence - always referred to me by that appellation.  And so the name stuck and I've been known as "Kid" - to them and to others - ever since.

But whence came the habit which led to me effectively naming myself?  Why did I call people "kid" to begin with?  I'm glad I pretended you asked.  You see, back in the early 1970s, there was a brilliant comedy show called WHATEVER HAPPENED To The LIKELY LADS, starring JAMES BOLAM and RODNEY BEWES.  In fact, as they had alternating billing from week to week, if you re-read that last sentence, reverse the order of their names so that I don't hear from their agents or solicitors.

Although the programme was a comedy, it also had pathos, poignancy and profundity - otherwise known as the three Ps.  During the course of their frequent nostalgia-laden soliloquies, the characters often addressed each other as "kid" or "kidda".  In my devotion to the programme and my desire to emulate the two main characters, I soon adopted the practice of referring to everyone I knew (and even some I didn't) as "kidda", which resulted in some fairly puzzled looks.  That's because the words "kidda" and "kidder" sound pretty similar when pronounced with a lazy Glaswegian accent, and this made folks think I was accusing them of pulling my leg in some way.

"Kidder?" they'd say in a slightly bewildered manner (likewise mispronouncing it as "kidda") - "Kiddin' about what?"  Well, it didn't take me too long to realize that adopting the shorter option - "kid" - would avoid any unnecessary confusion amongst my sturdy band of companions and free me from having to endlessly explain myself.  It could've been far worse, as I'd once been in the habit of exclaiming "Jings, man!" in response to anything of even a vaguely interesting or surprising nature.

This inevitably led to all my friends and acquaintances calling me "Jings-Man" every time I appeared on the horizon.  Fortunately, I soon dropped the use of this 'oath' (doubtless acquired from reading too many BROONS and Oor WULLIE strips in The SUNDAY POST) and thus escaped any longterm association with the name which could've resulted in lasting damage to my delicate sensibilities.  I much prefer being called "Kid" - or "Sir", even.  (In fact, now that I come to think about it, "Master" is good as well.)

And there you have it!  The hitherto secret origin of how I gained my teenage nickname which has remained with me to this day.  And you also have an object lesson in the art of writing something about nothing - but you should only ever do so if your very life depends on it, so I have absolutely no excuse.

PART TWELVE OF SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS: TRIPS, TEACHERS & TEARS...

The incident described occurred just to the left
(and out of sight) beyond the closed fire door

When I was a young lad at primary school, there was a boy in my class by the name of Ewan Shepherd, who giggled like a girl and was slightly effete. I never realised it back then, but looking back many years later, it struck me that such was the case.  Ewan may well be a big manly man now, but it would come as no great surprise to me to learn that he made the journey to Denmark at the earliest opportunity after leaving school.

But Ewan isn't the star of this post - his is nothing more than a cameo role in this true tale from the dim and distant days of my childhood, when I was only about 8 years old.  Ewan and myself were part of the double line of pupils waiting at the foot of the stairs one day, ready to ascend to the rooms above.  One of us (Ewan I think) accidentally tripped as the line started to move, placing us slightly out-of-step with our fellows, and Ewan emitted a giggle.  Suddenly, Mr. Halliburton, descended upon us and violently yanked us from the ranks.

Pushing us against a wall, he started to shout at us, and was either going to belt us or give us 'lines'.  (Can't recall with certainty after so many years - it was one or the other.)  I'd had an encounter with Halliburton before (see here) and was determined not to let him intimidate me.  "I'm going to tell my dad about you!" I declared, and started to move towards the door leading to the playground.  (I lived at the top of the road, so my house was nearby.)  He grabbed me by the lapels and pushed me back against the wall, glaring at me menacingly.

At this point Ewan burst into tears, eliciting a look of contempt from Mr. Halliburton, who then eyed us while he deliberated his next move.  An internal struggle seemed to be taking place - then he ordered "Get to your class!" As Ewan moved off, Halliburton pulled me back, lowered his voice and muttered "Don't ever threaten me with your father again."  Yeah, that'd be right - adults wouldn't put up with his p*sh, but kids could be easily intimidated.  Except for me that is.

I caught up with Ewan as he dabbed his tears away with the back of his hands. He forced out a giggle - "Hee hee - that always works" he whimpered, sheepishly and unconvincingly.  Yeah, sure - but even so it was no excuse to abandon dignity and self-respect.  However, Mr. Halliburton never tried to bully me or lay his hands on me again in all my remaining time at primary.  That's what I call a result!

Soon:  Another tale about the tears of Ewan.

SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - PART ELEVEN: DINNERTIMES CAN BE DANGEROUS...

The teachers' table sat in front of (and parallel) to the stage

Believe it or not, I was rather shy and introverted as a primary school pupil and didn't mix well with my fellows.  Back in my day, it was the practice to pair off with a classmate when en route to anywhere in the school by saying "Take!" and clasping the hand of the favoured (or simply available) choice of partner before making our way (in a double-filed line) to whichever part of the school we were led by the teacher.

One day (in 1966), the bell rang for dinner, and the playground emptied as the throng of kids made its way into the corridor outside the dining hall, pairing off while awaiting permission to enter.  (I'm unsure why we were in the playground at dinnertime, but we were.  Perhaps we were the second wave of hungry diners that day.)

Anyway, I hung back because I didn't have a fellow pupil to pair off with - for two reasons.  Firstly, no one picked me, and secondly, I was just too shy to put myself forward.  My brother found me lurking in the corridor and enquired why I wasn't in the hall filling my face.  I explained my situation and he took me to see Mr. Curry, the janitor.  Wishing to avoid embarrassing me by saying "He's too shy to go into the hall by himself", he just said "He was at the far end of the playground and didn't hear the dinner-bell." 

Mr. Curry took me to the door of the hall, opened it and actually whistled to the teachers sat at the 'top table'.  Mr. Halliburton, the deputy head looked over, and Mr. Curry nodded at me in a contemptuous manner.  "Didn't hear the bell," he explained as Mr. Halliburton came over, in a tone which suggested "a likely story".

Without saying a single word to me, Mr. Halliburton grabbed me by the back of my shirt collar and, no exaggeration, my feet barely scuffed the stairs as he ascended to his classroom on the top floor.  There, he administered several strokes of 'the strap', with such severity I had the wind knocked out of me.  Then he dragged me back down to the hall and said to one of the dinner ladies "Give this boy his food!"

Ignore the doorway on your left.  It was the doorway to the side
of it on your right from which Mr. Curry hailed Mr. Halliburton

I'll choose my next words very carefully.

What a nasty, sadistic b*st*rd!  No sympathy, no empathy, no clue about how to deal with kids who were a bit self-conscious or introverted.  How he was ever allowed to be a teacher, never mind a headmaster (as he later became) remains a complete mystery to me.  I met him at various times in my teenage and adult years, and though I was always perfectly polite to him, I never forgot the appalling way he had punished my 7-year-old self for merely being a bit shy and lacking in confidence.  Schoolkids today don't know just how fortunate they are, that's for sure.

One of his two sons was in my class in secondary school, and I always felt just a little bit sorry for him.  Not that he was a sad individual or anything like that, but I have the impression that he copped a fair bit of grief simply for being his father's son.  Mr. Halliburton hadn't been well-liked by quite a number of pupils, and poor Neville would've had that situation to deal with, unfortunately.  Probably the opposite of his primary school days I imagine, when none of his classmates would've dared touch him for fear of incurring his pater's sadistic and unholy wrath.

I last saw Mr. Halliburton around 9 years or so ago, but he was pretty ancient, and I'd be surprised (though undismayed) to learn that he's yet alive.  If it's not already happened, it won't be long until it's Mr. Halliburton's turn to see 'The Headmaster'.  I'm not so bitter over my experience though, that I'd begrudge him being accorded the understanding, insight, and mercy that he seemed incapable of displaying towards his unfortunate pupils.

Hey, maybe I'm a better person than I thought.

******

Incidentally, there's a subsequent incident involving Mr. Halliburton where I defied his attempt to punish me again.  I'll tell you all about it another time.

     

RUMINATING REPOST: MYSTERIES, MUSINGS, & MEANDERINGS...

In previous posts I've bored you all rigid with ponderous ponderings on the nature of time, as well as rambling reminiscences of my childhood and how I've never been quite able to comprehend how I went to bed one night as a teenager and woke up what seems like the very next day as the grumpy curmudgeon I am now. Well, the bad news is that it's more of the same, I'm afraid.

As a child I was always looking backward.  When I moved from the first house I remember (but not the first I lived in), I made little pilgrimages to my old street to look at my former abode and derive some comfort from the familiarity of its presence.  What's odd about this over-developed sense of nostalgia is that I only lived three or four minutes away and was a mere five and a half years old. Wow!  Not even six and already hankering after the 'good old days'.

This compulsion to revisit the past has been a prominent feature of my personality all through my life to this very day.  I recently added photographs of the views from the windows of my previous houses to my screensaver facility so that I can again gaze on familiar scenes whenever the mood takes me.  At the click of a key I can re-experience any one of several landscapes that once met me when I drew back the curtains in the morning at various stages in my life.

However, there was one particular house (the third after the aforementioned ones above) I lived in for several years that I didn't miss 'til over a dozen years after moving out (and two houses down the line) and I've often wondered as to the reasons for this 'delayed reaction'.  If you're interested (or aren't currently engaged in watching paint dry), feel free to join me as I explore the possible explanation for the curious complexity which has puzzled me for many a long year.

When I moved from the house in question (back in 1972), my life still revolved to a great degree around the neighbourhood it was situated in.  I continued to attend the school just across the road from it for another two and a half years.  I still went to Summer and Christmas fayres in the church at the top of the street, and my mother dutifully trotted along to the Sunday services every week, even though there was another congregation of the same denomination just around the corner from our new home.  (In fact, it was from this group that the one my mother went to had sprung.)  My friends all lived near or around my old domicile and I continued to frequent the area for quite a few years after.

It wasn't unusual for me to come home from school (and later, work), have my tea, and then return to my previous neighbourhood to hang about the local shopping centre (about thirty seconds away from my old front door) with my pals.  Perhaps that explains why I wasn't consumed with the same rabid pangs of nostalgia I nursed for previous houses;  I saw it so often that I simply never had a chance to miss it.  The ambiance of the house was preserved in our new home by the presence of the same furniture we'd had in every place we'd ever lived in - plus, our new house was similar in many respects to the first one I remembered, hence it conjured up a feeling of familiarity that pre-dated the dwelling we had just recently vacated.

It wasn't until we had again moved house (in 1983) and were ensconced in yet another new residence that I gradually started to miss the one we had quit way back in 1972. What's strange about this was that I was simultaneously wallowing in nostalgic notions for the homestead we had just left (to say nothing of the ones which preceded them both), so it certainly can't be denied that I was spoilt for choice when it came to such sentimental self-indulgence.  Maybe I'm just greedy?

Perhaps another reason I only started to miss this particular house when I did had something to do with running into an old classmate from primary school in the neighbourhood shops across from my old home in 1984 or '85.   ALEX LOWE by name, and as fine and decent a bloke as you could ever hope to meet.  We exchanged greetings, enquired after one another's well-being, and then Alex asked: "Are you still living across the road?", nodding in the direction of my previous abode.  He was surprised to learn that I'd moved away about twelve or thirteen years earlier, and it made me wonder how many other people I knew still thought I lived in a place I'd left almost half my life away at that point.

Talking of Alex (and veering wildly off topic), I hope he won't mind me recounting that he once appeared in our secondary school play as a fairy, uttering the immortal lines:  "I'm a fairy, bright and gay, helping others every day!"  I don't recall anything else about that play, but Alex's turn got such a huge laugh on the night that everyone remembered it - and constantly quoted the lines back to him in lisping, falsetto voice over the course of the next few terms.  (I know I did, little bastich that I was.)  He always took it in good humour, being the fine fellow he is.

I'd planned to expand the scope of this topic and try and explore (in an epic exercise in tedium) wider themes than I actually have.  For example, what it is that draws us to our past and connects us to where we came from, and whether or not it has any bearing on the direction we take in life.  Can a house in which we once stayed shape our perceptions of ourselves, or would we be precisely the same as we are regardless of the bricks and mortar which shield us from the elements?  However, the realisation has now dawned on me that it's simply too big a concept to concisely and competently capture within the confines of a blog post - in an interesting and entertaining way, at least.

I'll have to content myself with the hope (slim as it may be) that I may have prompted some readers to indulge in a little quiet contemplation of whatever memories reside within the repositories of their own minds.

Or, failing that, helped cure them of their insomnia.

CHILDHOOD CAPERS - CHAPTER THREE: THE 'AMAZING' UNCLE WILLIE...

I used to have an uncle; nothing unusual about that - lots of folk have uncles.  I had more than one uncle of course, but it's one in particular I'm going to talk about today.  Let's call him Uncle Willie - mainly because that was his name.  Although, in the interests of historical accuracy, it behoves me to admit that I'm unsure whether he was an 'actual' uncle or merely an 'honorary' one, in that convenient bracket that older male relatives are placed when it's not known exactly what their title should be.  He never struck me as a very nice man to be frank, and he was eventually sectioned under the mental health act for beating up his wife - who, unsurprisingly, happened to be my aunt.  They were both quite elderly when all this was going on, which is all rather tragic I suppose.

I remember being through in Edinburgh with my family back in the late '60s, visiting one of my father's sisters (another aunt), and Uncle Willie and his wife were there too.  We all left at the same time and I remember Uncle Willie put his hand in his pocket and slipped some coins into the hands of my other aunt's kids.  I was surprised to see this act of generosity, because he'd never done that with me or my brother.  I liked him even less after that.

Uncle Willie was a bit of a blowhard.  Full of tall tales and unlikely stories designed to portray himself in the most flattering light.  Anything anyone else had ever done, he'd done first or done better - and sometimes even both.  He and his wife were visiting our house one night, and he took the opportunity to regale my brother and myself with tales of how fit he was and how he was able to expand his chest to nigh Olympian proportions.

He could see from our expressions that we remained unconvinced (nor were we much interested, truth be told) so he insisted on demonstrating his 'amazing ability'.  At first he stood in a stooped position with his chest as far back towards his spine as possible, then slowly stood up, thrusting his chest out as far as he could and, arching his back while leaning forward, attempted to create the impression that he'd achieved his stated goal.  When he was finished, he proudly announced: "Mabel, I've just expanded my chest by 11 and a half inches!"  He hadn't of course, all he'd done is made a tit of himself.  We were too polite to say so, but we had a good laugh at him after he'd left.

I'm glad I've no nieces and nephews, because at least I know I can never be regarded with derision or disdain in the way that me and my brother discreetly regarded Uncle Willie.  So I suppose the moral of this story is that if you want your young relatives to be left with a good impression of you when you're gone, then you should avoid trying to impress them while you're here.