ALL OUR YESTERDAYS...?

As someone living in my seventh house by the time I was twenty-eight, I've often wondered what it must be like for those who've lived in the same abode for all of their remembered life.  You see, to me, the memories of each area I've lived in (especially growing up), each set of friends, neighbours, experiences, etc., is almost like having lived several alternate lives when I think back on them.  To someone who has always lived in the same house, I'd imagine it's an entirely different scenario.

This makes me wonder if their perception of time is the same as mine.  Having stayed in the same place all their life, does the period of their childhood seem to have passed quicker or slower to them, not having consisted of separate 'epochs' in the way that mine has?  As I once explained in a previous post, regardless of whether I lived somewhere for one year, four years, or eleven years, when I look back, it doesn't feel as if I spent longer in one place than I did another. Consequently, having stayed in five different houses before I was fourteen - for what seems like equal duration in each one - the impression that I've lived five distinct childhoods is perhaps more understandable than would at first appear.

However, if you've lived in the same house all your life, you only have memories of growing up against the background of the same place to reflect on in later life, so - does your sense of time, uninterrupted as it was in comparison to mine, operate on the same level?  I don't suppose I'll ever really know, but the question fascinates me.  As I also said in another post, I have a tendency to imbue a sense of the profound into the most trivial of concepts - perhaps this is just one such occasion.

Anyone got any thoughts on the matter?

HAVE YOU MISSED THE BUS...?

Funny what thoughts go through one's mind during a casual glance out of the window, isn't it?  When I first moved into these vaulted halls many years ago, I had a panoramic view of the far horizons from my bedroom window.  Over the years, I grew to enjoy observing seemingly tiny double-decker buses, interiors lit up against the darkness of the night sky, as they traversed their routes in the distance.  I'd watch, fascinated, as they suddenly entered stage left, and then parade across the bejewelled black canvas backdrop of night, before exiting, stage right, from the scene.

Sometimes, of course, they'd glide into view in reverse order to the one just described, and at other times, two buses would appear simultaneously from opposite directions and approach one another like duelling behemoths, only to pass without incident or acknowledgement in the middle.  On occasions such as these I was spoilt for choice, my eyes dancing from one to the other, captivated by these glowing little boxes on wheels as they narrowed the distance between them.  I can't explain it, but there's just something magical about watching lit vehicles at night from afar, especially if one is within the cozy confines of one's own hearth and home at the time.

Nowadays, I still have pretty much the same vista spread before me, but there have been encroachments.  Due to building developments, part of the stretch of road along which these buses run has been blocked from my view.  I'm lucky if I can spy on the sojourns of these night-time buses for half the span I enjoyed in years past, before they disappear from sight behind a new school near the road.  I can't help but wonder if those narrowing horizons might mirror my life in some symbolic way.

In youth, with the future stretching seemingly endlessly before me, my life was in 'widescreen'; as the years have passed the screen has shrunk until it's now 'regular'. Imagine if, in some strange way, the remaining visibility of that stretch of road was an indication of the measure of time left to me.  (And that's if I'm lucky.)  Of course, I can only hope that the two aren't connected.  Otherwise, if that view of the road and its procession of buses becomes completely obscured anytime soon, then I'll be deep in the soft, smelly brown stuff. 

It's a sobering thought.  And, being a teetotaller, I'm already as sober as I need to be.

JUST WALKIN' IN THE RAIN...?

Outside, it's a wet and windy day.  The rain lashes the streets with unrelenting fervour as, from my window, I observe a few bedraggled passersby scurry for shelter or in pursuit of some purpose know only to themselves.  The sky is grey and ominous, clouds swirl overhead in regal, grim-meined majesty, contemptuously regarding us mere mortals as the lowly ants we undoubtedly are.

And that's the weather forecast for today.

However, cosily ensconced within the comfortable confines of my comics covered cubbyhole, I luxuriate in the warmth emanating from the radiator and concern myself with what pithy (no, I don't have a lisp), profound and poignant comments I can bestow upon my eager audience, who look to me to lighten and brighten their unbearable burden by bedazzling them with the wit and wisdom which so freely pours forth from my meaningful, methodical and monumental mind. 

Oh, what lucky people you are.

When I was a boy in Belmont, we had an outside 'garden cellar' (as did most houses in the street), in which we stored coal in one half and garden tools (lawnmower, spades, etc.) in the other.  (It was called a cellar even though it wasn't underground, but apparently the term is not misapplied in such circumstances.)  On rainy days I'd sit on a deckchair inside the bigger-sized half with the door slightly ajar, reading comics and listening to the rain pattering off the pavement and caressing the concrete roof under which I ever-so-snugly sheltered.

Even today, I find it a supremely calming experience to sit in a car in the rain and listen to the drops rattlling on the roof in their staccato, tinny-sounding fashion.  There is a wonderfully diverse quality to rain;  when one is out walking in it, it invigorates, it refreshes, and it cleanses.  Yet, when one takes the time to regard its presence in quiet contemplation from the comfort of a dry haven, it also relaxes the mind and soothes the soul.

Sadly, refuge in the garden cellar of my youth is a couple of houses ago and many years in the past.  However, I can still seek sanctuary in its shadows with one short step into the hallowed halls of memory.  As Cicero himself said:  "Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things."  Failing that, of course, I can always go and sit in my nice new acrylic garden shed and listen to the rain pitter-patter all around me, the door half-open to allow me to watch it in silent awe.

******

Incidentally, the photo below was taken about twenty years ago outside the very cellar mentioned, around twenty years after I had moved from the house.  How did I manage that, do I hear you ask?  Ah, but that's a story for another time.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS...

About eighteen years ago, one of my old schoolfriends found himself in the unfortunate position of having to vacate the family home when his father died.  In order to help him and his sister have less to carry with them when they moved, I accepted his offer to see if there was anything I might want to buy from their excess of unwanted baggage.  I gave him £100 for a few relatively worthless odds'n'ends' (books, ornaments, etc.) so that he didn't think he was the recipient of charity, and hoped it would be of use in some small way.

Amongst the items I purchased from him was the above book.  I bought it for my father who was in hospital at the time, so that he could read it when he got out.  He never did.  He died not long after without ever seeing it (unless he glimpsed it on a brief visit home) and it's languished in a cupboard since the day it came into my possession.  Having fought abroad during the Second World War these type of stories were right up his street, but I've never been interested in military matters.

However, whenever I lay eyes on the book, it brings with it a sense of 'unfinished business' - as if it's waiting to fulfill the purpose for which it was bought, but has been denied ever since.  As I said, the subject isn't really my 'cup of tea', but, more and more, I'm left with the sense that maybe I should read it on my father's behalf - and thus end its years of neglect and abandonment.  I know it sounds daft, but the feeling is beginning to haunt me. 

Unfinished business, eh?  One day soon perhaps.

MEDITATIONS ON BEGINNINGS & ENDINGS...

It may come as no surprise to any of you, but from a very early age I was much given to looking back on the past.  My remembered past, obviously, as I wasn't interested in or capable of reminiscing about events which pre-dated either myself or my ability to recall them.  When, aged five, I moved from one house to another just a few short minutes away, I made it a point to return to my previous street on a regular basis so I could re-experience the nearby woods in which I'd once played and again take in the expansive view from the top of the hill.

Over the years (and houses and neighbourhoods), I always found it comforting to return to the places of my youth and reconnect with them from time to time, and for almost the first three decades of my life, most of these hallowed haunts remained essentially unchanged.  Each time, the experience was akin to the hushed awe and reverential atmosphere so exquisitely described in The PIPER At The GATES Of DAWN chapter in Scottish-born author KENNETH GRAHAME's beautiful book, The WIND In The WILLOWS, published in 1908.

It was almost like returning to the dawn of creation, when everything must've seemed magical and mystical, and from which every living thing derives its strength and power.  Revisiting the environs of my early childhood recharged and revitalised me in some way, but it also somehow made events from even only a few years before seem like a far-distant era - at the exact same time as making them, paradoxically, closer than a lover's kiss.  I suppose, to a seven year old, three years is more than half one's remembered life, and perhaps half one's life seems just as long or as short at any age.  Does that make any sense?

Then things started to change.  First it was lampposts being supplanted by newer, thinner models, placed on the inside of the pavements instead of at the kerbs. Then it was the paving stones, replaced with tarmacadam, dark and dismal in the gloom of the night.  Next, it was building on fields and green areas, and the removal of swing-parks, resulting in open, spacious, well-planned neighbourhoods being transformed into crowded, claustrophobic, concrete ghettoes.

Earlier this evening I decided to retrace a certain route to my first primary school. Sometimes, as children, we'd take a detour into a swing-park and then through some woods which led to the school.  The swing-park is an empty space and the trees were cut down some years ago, the fallen giants now littering the overgrown trail they once used to shade.  On previous occasions over the years, visiting the area was like a pleasant journey into yesterday and a salve to my soul.  That these places could always be relied upon for the same simple welcome seemed like one of life's unchanging truths, but, alas, that is no longer the case.

I'd always thought, in my declining years, the locales of my boyhood would still exist and I'd be able to revisit them one last time, and find solace in the fact these spots would yet be around for future generations to enjoy similar experiences to my own.  I'm now only too well aware when my final bedtime comes, sadly, that won't be the case.  The only hope left to me is, should I awaken on 'the other side', I'll find all those familiar places waiting to greet me and welcome me home.

Night has fallen and the daylight seems a long way off.  Is that my name I faintly hear, carried on the whisper of the evening breeze?

IF YOU HAD ONE WISH...

If, by some magical process, you had one wish, what would you wish for above all else?  Would it be wealth, health, youth, looks, immortality - or some other aspect which could be yours for the wishing?  Sex appeal, hair, height, charisma, etc., you name it and just imagine you could have it in a heartbeat.

In the following poem, the writer's wish is abundantly clear - but what would you wish for?

******

    The time hangs heavy on my hands as I think back on bygone days,

      When in fair childhood's far-off lands I played beneath Sol's golden rays.

      I thought myself immortal then and never spared a thought for death,

      For I was just a lad of ten, but now I'm old and short of breath.

     With little time ahead of me, my mind turns backwards to the past,

     And days of glory do I see of happy times I thought would last.

     But Time, the one who mocks us all, will have her way as years pass by,

     We are but captives in Time's thrall and 'tis appointed that we die.

     But in my head I'm young once more, surrounded by my childhood friends,

     And things are as they were before in mystic time that never ends.

     There's Tom and Jim and Joe and Bill, restored to youth once more in dreams,

     We play again upon that hill which rang with laughs and joyous screams.

     Then they grew up and went their way; they met and married loving wives,

     They gave their all in work and play, they led such rich, fulfilling lives.

     There was so much I meant to do, but never seemed to find the time,

     And now I sit here whilst I rue that I'm no longer in my prime.

     But then as if freed from a trance my reverie comes to a close.

     In mirrored-glass I catch a glance and wonder if that old man knows

     When he was young he had it all, the whole wide-world lay at his feet;

     He should have conquered and stood tall - but now I stoop low in defeat.

     My friends are gone, dead many years, and I am left to face my fate,

     I try to hold back stinging tears and know I've left things far too late.

     I should have made more of my life and not just let it slip away,

     And raw regret cuts like a knife for things unsaid I meant to say.

     Regret for things I meant to do, but sadly, madly, left undone.

     The women that I meant to woo, who might have borne to me a son.

     I sat and watched life pass me by as I was left upon the shelf,

     And then it was too late to try and I blame no one but myself.

     So one truth now I realize, that life is like a bitter pill,

     And as I dab tears from my eyes I dream once more of that green hill,

     Remembering with poignant joy the happy lad I was at ten -

     And wish I was a little boy, if only for one day again.

(Halcyon Days by Iain Osborne.)

******

Feel free to share your wishes in the comments section.

WINDOW ON THE PAST...

Regular readers will be aware by now that one of the chief delights of my life when younger was gazing out of my classroom windows and losing myself in daydreams. What cared I about matters pertaining to geography, history, maths and the like?  I was too busy flying around the sky or saving the world - in my fertile imagination, at least.  Sometimes I wasn't quite so energetic in my fantasies, and was content just to watch the clouds glide by in languid motion, going wherever it is that clouds go to.

It should therefore come as no surprise to anyone to learn that I still like to gaze out of windows today, observing the comings and goings of neighbourhood residents, the antics of assorted dogs, cats, birds, squirrels and foxes, and whatever else happens in a typical street.  And yes, I still enjoy just watching the clouds drift by or contemplating the rain pattering off the pavement.  Recently, however, I've become aware of just how few people I actually recognise in their daily perambulations past the panoramic perimeters of my property.

There are now only two faces I can identify from around the time I first came to this house over forty years ago.  One was here before we moved to the area, the other took up residence a year or two after we arrived.  There are others who've lived here for maybe twenty or thirty years, but for some curious reason I still regard them as 'newbies' and not yet established in the neighbourhood firmament.  Strange how them not living here within the first few years of my arrival makes them seem like newcomers I haven't quite adjusted to yet.

There's a possibility that one of the old, familiar faces may sell up and move on in the not too distant future, and the other is retired and getting on in years.  When the last link to how things once used to be has finally gone, I wonder just how I'll react to being surrounded by complete strangers with no connection to my younger days back in the early 1970s.  I've noticed a feeling of 'displacement' gradually creeping up on me over the last few years as more and more 'well-kent' faces have faded from my everyday experience, and sometimes I almost feel like I'm the stranger who doesn't quite belong in these here parts.

It's then that I immerse myself in comicbooks from four decades ago and re-live the early years of when I first moved to this house, in an attempt to recapture the mood, the ambiance, the atmosphere - the flavour - of what it was like to live here back in the sensational '70s, when I was practically just a lad not too far removed from the start of my journey through life and all it had to offer.

Then I lose myself in visions of the past; where long-gone local worthies yet walk the streets beyond my windows - living, breathing, laughing and chatting as they did in bygone days, before they gradually fell, one by one, victims to time. I seek refuge in a place and a period which now exist only in memory, populated by the ghosts of yesterday, and the knowledge is not lost on me that, one day, my 'continuance' will consist of being nothing more than a lingering echo in the minds of others.

TEENAGE TALES: TEATIME TREATS - OF THE UNRECIPROCATED VARIETY...

As regular readers of this blog will know, I spend an inordinate amount of time looking back on my early years, and one of the things that recently struck me was just how differently some of my friends' parents treated me when I was a teenager, as compared to how my parents treated most of my pals.

For example, whenever any known member of my motley crew came to the door for me, they were invariably invited in, and quite a few times my mother would feed the fortunate individual if they called when she was just about to make something to eat.  If I was having fish and chips then whatever pal had been fortunate enough to drop in was also treated to the same culinary delight as myself.

However, it seems to me that, whenever I called in to visit certain pals, I was kept waiting at the door if it was answered by a parent - and one time, calling in on one particular pal at a prearranged time in order to go somewhere, I was told "He's still in his bed!" and had the door closed in my face.  Sorely tempted as I was to say "Well, get him out of bed then!", my somewhat lame "He's expecting me!" as the gap in the door narrowed had no effect.  On the other hand, if ever I was in my bed when a friend called, they were still invited in and I would be told to rouse myself as quickly as possible.

I can't recall, with one possible exception, any of my friends' parents ever feeding me if I should mistime my visit and chap their door when they were fixing on getting around to eating.  Usually I'd be told "He's just about to have his tea!" and find myself staring at a door.  And I'd imagine it was the same for any other friends that called, not just me - although I can't prove it, so maybe I just gave off the wrong vibes.  Can't see how though - I was never a ned and certainly didn't dress (or behave) like one.

Of course, this doesn't apply to everyone I know, as some pals never called at food-times - or vice-versa - but it happened in the case of a few long-term regulars.  I guess I'll just have to put it down to my parents being better-mannered and more welcoming than those of some of my pals.  Names are withheld, of course, to spare the blushes of the guilty parties.

HUGH AND I...

The afternoon moon.  Photo by me

Hugh was a nice big fella - tall, thin, quiet and unassuming.  I'd met him back in 1983 when I was attending night-classes at my old secondary school (now demolished), and he was one of those people with whom it was immediately easy to get along.  I'd left school at 16 before sitting any Highers, and now I was seeking to redress the oversight by studying for Higher English.  (Passed it.)

However, it wasn't until after we'd sat our exams and night-school was over that Hugh and I became friends rather than just mere acquaintances.  Not the sort of friends who palled about regularly, or who made arrangements to meet up or anything like that.  It was just a case of whenever we ran into one another, we'd pass the time by 'shooting the breeze' and perhaps having a coffee together. Sometimes he preferred a pint, so we'd find a bar and I would partake of a Coke (in a dirty glass - nothing soft about me), and we'd kill an hour or two in conversation.

The last time I saw Hugh, I treated him to a meal in a local eatery and we reminisced about 'old times'.  We'd only known each other for about seven years or so, so our shared recollections didn't reach back too far, but Hugh was a bookworm and always had something interesting to say.  He was also a book rep, which meant he had a car, so when we'd finished our meal and had a gab, he deposited me at my house and said goodbye.  "We'll do this again sometime," he said.  "My treat."

A couple of months later (or so it seemed), I was reading the 'In Memoriam' column in my local paper and spied a familiar name.  It was the first 'anniversary' of the death of someone's beloved son, and I was surprised to see that the name of the deceased was the same as Hugh's.  Couldn't be him of course, as I'd last seen him only a couple of months back and the poor guy in the paper had been dead for a year.

However, as the day wore on, something gnawed at the back of my mind, and eventually I 'phoned a Glasgow shop which Hugh used to supply with books from time to time.  A guy called Stevie answered and I asked if he knew the book rep named Hugh, and whether he'd seen him recently.  "He's dead," he said.  "Got hit by a bus around a year ago."  Thanking him, I put down the 'phone and slowly let the confirmation of my nagging suspicion sink in.

That meant I'd last seen Hugh over a year before, despite it seeming far more recent than that.  I could hardly believe it - he'd been resting in his grave (or his urn) for over twelve months while I, in my ignorance, still trotted about permissively, half-expecting to run into him at any time.  Even after I learned of his death, I'd occasionally see someone in my local shopping centre and absent-mindedly think "Is that Hugh?", ready to call out to him before sadly remembering that he was no longer around.

Funny how quickly time passes, isn't it?  It's now over twenty years since I learned Hugh had died, and it still only seems like a few months since we ate and talked and laughed together, and he dropped me off outside my house with the promise of "doing it again sometime".  Sadly  for Hugh, that "sometime" never came - nor, in fact, for me either.  But who knows?  Maybe one day, perhaps - in another place, another time.

And Hugh - if so, you're buying.

TEENAGE TALES - PREDATORS, PERVERTS & PENTHOUSE...

This is going to be a long one, so you might want to pour a cup of tea and grab a biscuit or three before you begin.  Though, truth to tell, it might not be entirely comfortable reading.  I'm now about to relate a personal anecdote of a situation from which I was fortunate enough to escape unscathed.  Physically unscathed that is, but the incident left its psychological mark on me for many years afterwards and still affects me to this day.

It all began in the upstairs cafeteria of my local Co-op store back around 1973, possibly '74.  I had just washed down a plate of beans with a Coke (hardly a good mix) and suddenly found myself in need of a visit to the toilet.  While perched on the porcelain, I noticed that the previous patron had amused himself by singeing the edges of the loo roll attached to the cubicle wall.  I'd guess it was more out of boredom than a wanton act of arson, by someone having a fly puff in the loo - probably a shop worker, in fact.

It really wasn't worth mentioning to the staff, but, on my way out, I did so anyway - more to demonstrate what a conscientious customer I was than because it was deserving of their attention.  (Or perhaps it was merely a simpering, shameless example of ingratiation in the best Cyril Swot tradition.)  Cut to a fortnight later when I was back in the cafe, and I was suddenly detained by two members of staff while the police were called.  When they arrived, I was questioned over the events of two weeks before, taken 'round to the local nick and kept in a detention room for an hour or so, then let go.  I wasn't charged with anything, but was told that officers would be calling 'round to my house later to chat with my father.

This presented a bit of a problem for me, because my father actually worked behind the desk in that very station.  ('Twas his day off that day.)  Even though I hadn't actually done anything, I was mortified by the professional embarrassment this could cause him, so decided to side-step the situation by doing a 'runner'.  Not being a smoker I didn't carry matches, but was concerned that the mere act of being suspected of 'fire-raising' might be presumed by my father as an indication of my culpability in the matter.

So I hopped on a bus to Glasgow and took refuge in another cafeteria - this time in the basement of a cinema.  It was quite a large cafe, so I sat in a far corner and, being weary from the events of the day, I put my arms on the table and rested my head on them.  I must have dozed off for a bit, for when I lifted my head, a man was sitting opposite me (at my table), stirring a cup of tea.

Believe it or not, back in the early '70s, most kids weren't anywhere near as 'street smart' as they seem to be today - and I was probably even more innocent and naive than my contemporaries.  I wasn't at all comfortable with this stranger's presence, but it was well beyond my ability or experience to conceive, never mind articulate, exactly what his motives might be - and I had been brought up to always be respectful to adults.

Mindful of the fact that I was a 'runaway', and eager to avoid arousing his suspicions and thus betray myself, I politely answered his questions as to my name and where I lived.  I lied, of course, telling him that I stayed somewhere behind the Barrowland market and that I was killing time until my father came home from work because I didn't have a front door key.  "Glasgow's not a safe place for a youngster to hang around in.  Come back to my place for a cup of tea and you can wait there until he's home - it's not far!" he said.

What was I to do?  In my over-active, 14 year old imagination, I feared that if I declined, he might divine my status as a fleeing fugitive and hand me over to the 'fuzz'.  Although my 'spider-sense' was tingling, my youthful innocence and ignorance meant that I was ill-equipped to determine any specific threat - certainly nothing of a sexual nature - that should've prevented me from accepting this apparently kindly-intentioned stranger's invitation.  And so it was that, not too long after, I found myself sipping tea in the bedsit apartment of this 'good Samaritan'.  At least it would get me off the streets for an hour or two, I thought. 

Well, you can see where this is leading, can't you?  (If only I had been so smart.)  Laying on a table beside me were some 'soft-porn' mags like Mayfair, Club, & Penthouse, which he invited me to peruse if I so wished.  I self-consciously thumbed through one or two, thinking that it wasn't normally an activity in which teenage boys indulged in the company of adults.  Surely such pursuits were meant to be solitary, furtive and guilty pleasures?  Truth to tell, I found myself more interested in the comic strips, recognising Stingray and Captain Scarlet artist Ron Embleton's distinctive style on a strip called Oh, Wicked Wanda.

And then reality finally, inevitably, intruded.  "How often do you see to yourself?" he suddenly enquired - though that wasn't exactly how he phrased it, instead using the 'w' word.  I was shocked and stunned.  Remaining as civil as possible under the circumstances, I told him it was time for me to go, and before too long, I was on a bus home, prepared to face the music from the earlier episode that day.  It was preferable to dancing to the different kind of tune that my 'host' no doubt intended to play.

So why didn't he try to prevent me leaving?  It's obvious what his intentions were, but perhaps he salved his conscience by only exploiting youngsters who could be led, perhaps in their confusion or fear, down the route which he tried to steer them. Then, if caught, he could claim that they were 'up for it'.  Had he mistaken my acceptance of his invitation as a sign that I was aware of what his 'game' was, and curious to discover what was involved?  Had my obvious shock at his question and stout refusal to be drawn made him realise his mistake, and that here was no potential participant?

Whatever his reasons, I avoided a terrible fate that night, but while the individual's predatory behaviour deserves nothing but total condemnation, I used to sometimes wonder if he deserved a (grudging) measure of credit for not trying to satiate his unwholesome desires by force.  But no, his reluctance to do so was doubtless nothing other than a shield reserved in the armoury of his own defence lest he ever be hauled to account, not any form of consideration for those he concluded were beyond his ability to 'seduce'.

So, physically, I was unscathed, but for years afterwards, I would sometimes have panic attacks at the thought of what could have happened to me.  I'd break out in a sweat and the room would spin; I'd feel as if I was suffocating and gasp for air, while a sense of fear, nausea and impending doom engulfed me.  This also happened in the form of nightmares, from which I would suddenly awake as though my life depended on it.  Even today, there are certain scenes in some movies that I cannot watch without feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and I can only guess at how awful it must be for those who have actually suffered sexual abuse to see such depictions regularly on their TV screens - all in the name of 'entertainment'.

(I saw a Jennifer Aniston movie on TV recently which had what appeared, at first, to be a rape scene.  Even though it later turned out not to be as it seemed, I was quite shocked at the graphic depiction of proceedings and could see just how traumatic the scene must be for victims of such a crime.  There must be thousands, even millions, of them.  Surely it's time for movie makers to exercise a far greater degree of responsibility - not to mention sensitivity - when it comes to what they actually show in their productions?)

Anyway, that was my narrow escape.  In the more aware times in which we live today, I would have undoubtedly told the predatory paedophile to "feck off" and perhaps even administered a quick kick in the nuts before vanishing over the horizon in a cloud of dust.  However, back then it was a different, less informed age, and while I believe that the innocence of youth should be preserved for as long as possible, I'm smart enough to know that striking a balance between the protection of youngsters' mental purity and physical safety is a difficult (and often thankless) task indeed.

My biggest regret over the incident?  I really do wish it had occurred to me to boot him right in the spuds.  Let's hope that someone else actually did so, eh?  Several times over, while wearing size ten, steel toe-capped footwear.

LET'S HAVE SOME LIGHT AROUND HERE...

Here's a funny thing.  "About time!" you cry.  No, I mean 'funny-peculiar', not 'funny-ha ha' - although it is about time, so to speak.  You know how, when you associate a particular item with a specific place and period in your past, the association sometimes seems 'all-inclusive', whether it actually was or not?

"Good grief!  What's he wittering on about now?" you may be asking yourselves - so I'll tell you.

On my living-room ceiling are two circular fluorescent lights, which were first acquired in a previous house back in the 1960s.  I know we didn't always have them as I remember my father bringing them home one night and having to return one for a replacement the next day because it was broken.

We'd moved into the house in 1965, but it could've been anytime between 1966 and '67 at the earliest (maybe even '68?) before the lights assumed their place on the ceiling.  I can't remember the exact year we got them, but I now associate them so strongly with the house that, whenever I think back, it seems as if we had them the entire period we resided there, even though I know it isn't so.

Over 20 years ago, I visited my old home for the first time since leaving 16 years before, and was surprised to see patches over our old paper on the ceiling where the lights had once been.  (The patches were still there a few years later and perhaps might yet be there now, for all I know.)  Anyway, seeing that the lights had left their mark for so many years afterwards only reinforced their connection to the house in my mind.

It's the same with toys and comics.  Over the years, I've been lucky enough to re-acquire many items I once had as a child and have now owned them for far longer than I ever had the originals.  Some I originally maybe had for only a few weeks or months, others a year or three - and, as is the way of such things, some were consigned to history long before others made their appearance - yet somehow I seem to remember possessing each and every one of them concurrently and for the same duration.

One example I spoke about in a previous post is the first issue of the revamped SMASH! from March, 1969.  I only had it for around four days before selling it on to a classmate (it was my intention to buy another copy the next day, but I couldn't find one).  However, every page had embedded itself in my memory with such clarity that, when I tracked down a replacement copy over 15 and a half years later, it was instantly familiar - as if I'd last seen it only a few weeks before.

Here's the kicker though - whenever I leaf through its pages,  I'm instantly transported back to the living-room of the house I lived in at the time.  What's more, it seems to conjure up every aspect of that house and all the years I lived there, even though I only had the comic for a mere four days.  Uncanny!

So, I don't know about you, but I find it exceedingly strange that some items inform our recollections of a place to such a degree that they seem to represent the entire 'picture' as opposed to only a part of it (if that makes any sense).

If you've any thoughts on the subject, feel free to let rip in the comments section.  (And if you can tell me what I've just been talking about, I'd very much appreciate it.)

  

FOUR WALLS - WINDOWS OPTIONAL...



1987, and the end windows still provide access to the view.  When this photo was taken,
things were still pretty much as they'd been in my day.  My dog Zara (lying down on the
right of the picture) waits patiently for me to complete my task

As previously stated on this blog, when I was much younger and still at school, I was prone to daydreaming.  On pleasant sunny days, I'd sit and gaze out of the window and imagine I was flying through the clouds and soaring into the stratosphere at super-speed, doing all the things that beings imbued with the power of flight are able to.  Well, apart from pooping on pedestrians below.  I was a superhero, not a seagull.  (Yup, I was a nutter even back then.)

2010, and the windows are now blocked off.  Note also the old folks home on the left
of the picture, and the railings (with razor wire on the roof of the smaller building on
the right), giving the school a less-than-appealing appearance

  

On rainy days I was more relaxed, preferring just to look out at the grey skies beyond, as rivulets of rain raced down the pane, leaving little trails in the dirt on the window.  As I type this, it's raining outside, and it's with difficulty that I tear my gaze from the sky to apply myself to the task of writing yet another historically accurate, rousing reminiscence with which to thrill and enthral you.  I hope you appreciate all the sacrifices I make on your behalf.

Me in my old classroom circa 1986

  

In previous posts, I've alluded to the fact that all our horizons seem to be narrowing, as fields and play areas are consumed and crammed with sheltered housing for the elderly or squashed, teensy houses or flats for those climbing the property ladder.  For someone who grew up in a new town in the '60s, with its wide open spaces and acres of greenbelt for as far as the eye could see - and beyond - the disappearance of those green areas is casting a claustrophobic shadow over what was once an open and spacious place in which to live.

Close-up of part of the view from the back windows

My town currently has a new schools programme underway, in which a new school is built and then the old one demolished, thereby freeing up land on which to erect housing.  One thing that strikes me about these new buildings is that they have far fewer windows than their predecessors, in many cases resulting in pupils only having four walls to stare at (though no doubt the classrooms are brightly-lit), as opposed to a view beyond the windows.  It must be like living in a prison.  Even where classrooms do have windows, they're high-up, narrow ones, which allow no sight of the scenery (such as it is) beyond.

The same room as above and below.  As you can see, the pupils had
quite an expansive view before the windows on one side were covered

Take a look at the accompanying photographs of one of my old primary classrooms.  The above photo was taken circa 1986, about 16 years after I had left for secondary school.  Apart from new desks, everything was much as I remembered it.  As you can see, two of the walls have large windows, through which the pupils have a view of houses and fields outwith the school.  In the photo below, taken in the same class in 2012, one side has had its windows covered so that it can be utilised for pinning up pictures, etc.  This wasn't restricted to that one room;  that entire side of the school had all the windows blocked off, restricting the pupils' view of the wider world outside.

2012.  Dull, dreary, dismal and despairing.  I'm glad it wasn't like this in my day

Maybe there's no correlation, but I can't help wondering if narrowing people's horizons may also narrow their dreams and aspirations.  As a schoolboy, I used to explore the clouds from the comfort of my desk, and felt free and unfettered.  Just what do today's schoolkids dream of, or explore in their imagination with only the claustrophobic confines of four walls to 'inspire' them?

Any thoughts on the matter?

      

TO SLEEP, PERCHANCE TO DIE...

When you're young, you have absolutely no concept of never having existed.  On an intellectual level (if you ever felt disposed to consider the matter), you know there was a time when you weren't around, but you can't truly conceive what it was like because non-existence is a difficult if not impossible state to imagine.

Think of any period in mankind's history from before you were born;  the Old West, the Victorian Era, the 1920s or '30s - whatever.  Even though you never experienced them, you almost feel as if you have, thanks to history books, old photographs, artists' impressions, TV shows, movies, etc.  And because you can't remember your beginning, it seems as if you never actually had one and that you've been around forever.  At least, that's what it seems like to me.

Consequently, when I was a teenager of 14, I subconsciously laboured under the impression that I had always been.  (Though the same perception also applies to any point in my childhood from when I first became aware of my surroundings.)  It's unlikely that I was alone in that regard, and it's surely the same for 14 year-olds today.  It's only because fourteen years to someone of my age passes so quickly that I finally realized just how inconsequential such a period of time actually is.  I've got things lying around the house which have never been out of the wrappers since I bought them that are older than that.

As you inexorably inch closer to that time when the condition of non-existence threatens to once again engulf you, it's a prospect you tend to contemplate more than you did (if at all) in your younger days.  Finally, you begin to be able to nearly catch a glimmer of what extinction might be like, and the prospect isn't a pleasant one.  I recall waking up in hospital one day after a procedure which required my unconsciousness, and was alarmed to find I had no recollection of even a half-sleep-like state between being knocked out and coming to.

As I said, no half-remembered thoughts, vague dreams, or hovering on the edge of awareness to connect me to my pre-anaesthetised self - only an absolute absence of even the slightest sense of continuity between the two conditions.  It was then that I realised what oblivion must be like.  It was as if I'd been dead for however many hours I'd been out, and, although my body was still functioning, as far as my mind was concerned, there was no discernible difference between death and unconsciousness.

So, death is not merely a case of not waking up, it's also not even being aware of going to sleep or being asleep at any stage in the process.  Shakespeare was wrong; there are no dreams in the sleep of death, only a blackness and silence from which we never awaken - an eternal nothingness, an everlasting night.

That's no doubt why I often find myself wishing I was only 14 again.  The illusion of no beginning (and, by extension, no ending), while temporary, is a comforting and necessary notion, otherwise we'd probably abandon our journey before we were very far into it.  After all, what's the point of taking a road to nowhere?

Come to think of it, I wouldn't even mind being half that age.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work on that elixir of life I'm developing.  I just can't afford to relax if I want to be here in 2115.

******

We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Lewis Carroll.

PAST IMPERFECT, BUT WELCOME NONETHELESS...

Here's a curious tale which I can't actually recall if I've recounted before or not, though I've meant to for a while now.  Back in August of 1999, myself and a young lady were spending the day in Glasgow and decided to drop in to the Gallery of Modern Art in Royal Exchange Square.  One of the exhibits we looked at was a 'kinetic sculpture' by EDUARD BERSUDSKY, entitled An Autumn Walk in the Belle Epoque of Perestroyka (Meta-Tinguely).  (Below.)

It was scheduled to begin at a certain time, but with a dozen or so people seated and expectant, the minutes crept past the anointed hour without the demonstration of the complex contraption commencing.  The girl I was with (who, for the purpose of this tale we'll call Sally) went off to enquire about what was happening, only to find out that it had been cancelled due to some kind of technical fault.  (A sign at the entrance informing us of the fact would have been appreciated.)

Anyway, disappointed, we filed out to look at other exhibits and soon forgot about what we'd missed.  Not long after, Sally returned to her own country for a while, although I saw her again on two more occasions when she was back in Scotland some time later.  However, she doesn't feature in the rest of this story, so exit Sally, stage left.  Well, in an odd kind of way, that's not quite true, but let's take each step as it comes.  (The best way to take steps, I believe.)

A year later to the very day, I was in Glasgow and decided to revisit the Gallery once more.  Much to my surprise, the exhibit that had been out of order twelve months before was still on display - and just about to begin.  I entered the room and, believe it or not, the exact same two seats at the far end of the row that Sally and I had occupied were empty, so I parked myself on the very one I had sat on previously.

For the next several minutes, the audience sat in rapt attention as the display went through its preordained mechanical repertoire.  When it had completed its revolutions, I instinctively turned to Sally to ask her opinion of what we had just witnessed - only to be surprised for a split-second to find her chair empty.  Then reality kicked in and I realised that my mind had automatically jumped back a year, momentarily duped by the near perfect re-creation of the previous year's events.

Bizarre I know, but for a moment I had experienced something extremely akin to time-travel - even if it was only in my mind.  Has anyone else ever had a similar experience?  Feel free to share.

IN RECEIPT OF A MEMORY...

I was cleaning out an exterior cupboard in our back porch the other day and, in a dufflebag hanging on a nail, I found this receipt from 1982, revealing the fate of various familiar household items - most of which I had grown up with.

The tea set and the cruets could well have belonged to my grandparents, recently inherited by us upon their deaths, because I'm not quite sure which ones they were. The mirror, sewing machine, table and log box, however, had all accompanied me in my journey through childhood and my teenage years, right up into adulthood, and are still sorely missed by me.  I have photos of them somewhere and shall dig them out at some point and add them to this post.  (The table and log box, though, have popped up in previous posts on this blog.)

However, it's strange to be able to put an exact date to their departure after all these years.  And the £40 my parents were paid for the items is nothing short of robbery, even for 1982.  I sometimes wonder where they are now.  Did someone eventually buy them from the robber - oops, I mean dealer - in a single acquisition, or were they subsequently bought separately and now residing in different homes all across the country?  I don't suppose I'll ever find out, but, if I could, I'd buy them all back again.

The survival of the receipt is surprising.  The fact that it must have come with us when we moved away in 1983, then back to this house when we returned in 1987, boggles my imagination.  Lying in a Duffel Bag for 30-odd years, waiting to fulfill its destiny of revealing to me the exact date when fondly cherished items from yesteryear were untimely ripped (at poor recompense) from my company.

That means, of course, that they've been absent from my life far longer than they were ever a part of it.  Only in the physical sense though, because, truth to tell, they're never far from my thoughts and sometimes, for brief periods, I forget that they no longer inhabit my home, and aren't more than just an arm's reach or a room away.

******

"Sweet is the memory of distant friends!  Like the mellow rays

of the departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart."

Washington Irving.

******

I should add, in the interests of historical accuracy, that the log box may not have been the large one I'm thinking of, but rather a smaller one we 'inherited' from my grandparents when they moved into an old folks' home at the end of the 1970s.  The larger one may have been dispensed with at the beginning of '81 when I was staying down in Southsea for a few months.  Age, alas, prevents me from recalling exactly which one it was with my customary precision.  However, the smaller box was also a feature of my childhood, as it was from this that my brother and myself were each given two bars of chocolate on our weekly Sunday visits to my grandparents.

SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - PART EIGHT: "ANNEXED ALGEBRA"...

Annexed huts in 1984, shortly before removal.  The hut in question
was next in line to the left, but was gone before I took the photo

Algebra was never my strong point.  I wasn't helped by the fact that I seemed immutably incapable of applying myself to subjects in which I had no interest and, to me, algebra was far too abstract a concept, the academic absorption of which contained no obvious benefits that I could discern.  Therefore, mastering the intricacies of a slide-rule lay beyond the meagre limits of my interest or abilities.  I say "subjects in which I had no interest", but that's simply because they failed to interest me - the fault was therefore surely theirs (or the teachers who failed to imbue them with that particular quality), not mine.

It wasn't that I refused to apply myself in such matters, it was simply that I couldn't.  Whenever I attempted to turn on the metaphorical tap from which intellectual waters should abundantly flow, no such waters were forthcoming - only faint creaks, feeble groans and dry, dusty puffs stirred in the internal water-pumps of my mind.  Alas, I was a hopeless case;  except when it came to subjects that were accompanied by a built-in set of jump-leads to kick-start my interest (or teachers who made them interesting) - and algebra just wasn't one of them.

One day, in maths class, we were tasked with working out an algebraic equation.  I might as well have been given cuneiform tablets and asked to translate them, such was the impossibility of the enterprise set before me.  A blind and deaf five year-old infant with an IQ of minus 300 would've had a far better chance of performing keyhole brain surgery than I had of even comprehending what was being asked of me, far less accomplishing it.  The teacher passed my desk a few times in his perambulations around the room, and then, seeing my difficulty (but with no offer of assistance), made it clear to me that if I hadn't worked it out by lesson's end, I'd be in trouble.

The space where the huts had been was left bare for many years,
before, eventually, a different design of annexed 'huts' took their
place, but running 'longways' instead of 'sideways'

I was in trouble!  The switch in my brain endured a thousand flickings, but no welcome beam of light cast its illumination over the darkness of my incomprehension.  I tried staring at the problem on the blackboard in the earnest hope that sudden inspiration might strike, but it was useless.  You can't make a snowman without snow, and though, when it came to algebra, my poor brain was as cold as ice, there was just no snow to be found.  When the bell rang at the end of the period, the teacher, seeing that I hadn't completed the complex calculations, dismissed the rest of the class and then ordered me to raise my hands so that he could belt them.

I refused, of course.  To be punished for not doing what I was incapable of doing seemed immensely unfair to me, and I said so.  Not to be thwarted, the teacher took me over to the headmaster's office (Dr. COOK, as cold and as severe a man - despite his claim of Christian convictions - as any celluloid Nazi officer you've ever seen), who promptly ordered me to comply with the teacher's demands.  I was trotted back to the classroom in the annexed huts at the back of the school, where, in the cloakroom, five or six over-enthusiastic whacks of the tawse were administered upon my upturned palms.  I can only assume that he was a cricket fan, such was the run-up he took for each stroke.  Perhaps this was the part of his job that he enjoyed most;  in retrospect, a disproportionate number of these teachers seemed to be sadists.

I've related in a previous post the magnificent and unbowed manner in which I endured such punishment;  I looked the teacher straight in the eye and didn't flinch.  Not for me the dropping down or drawing back of my arms in a sad attempt to lessen the blows.  My palms remained upraised through each stroke;  and though, no doubt, my face (and hands) would've reddened slightly with the pain, unlike other pupils, by sheer effort of will I refused to be reduced to a snivelling, whimpering wreck.  I'm not too modest to reveal that I yet enjoy a sense of achievement at the way in which I thwarted such attempts to humble and humiliate me.

I only noticed the existence of these constructions in
the last few years of the school's life.  The photos were
taken in 2007, not long before complete demolition
of everything within school grounds

Anyway, it's no exaggeration to say teach was simply stunned by the staunch manner in which I had withstood his assault.  (And, nowadays, that's just how it would be regarded.)  Strange as it may sound, he seemed impressed, and suddenly adopted a friendly, ingratiating manner.  Putting his arm 'round my shoulder, he walked me over to the door, saying:  "Gordon, I only did that with great reluctance and for your own good.  I get no pleasure from it, but I know you've got it in you to do far better in this subject than you do.  I'm only trying to encourage you to achieve your full potential."  Okay, that's unlikely to be a verbatim account of his words (it's been over 40 years, after all), but be assured it's pretty much the gist of it.

I no longer recall his name or I would readily identify him for your righteous condemnation.  He was of a slightly weathered appearance, with steely-eyes, a determined jawline and wiry hair.  I can still see him in my mind's eye, and I've a feeling that he resembled an actor, who, if I could only remember which one, I'd include a picture to give you all a clearer idea of what he looked like.  In fact, on reflection, he was roughly in the same mould as a middle-aged SPENCER TRACY, but with hair of a darker hue (with hints of grey).  I'm not saying they were twins, mind, only that they were similar.  Couldn't say whether ol' Spence likewise enjoyed inflicting pain on adolescent schoolboys, but I'd consider it unlikely.

So there you have it!  Yet another Schooltime Scandal from the dim and distant days of my journey through the hallowed halls of Academia.  Have you had enough?  Then say "We submit!" and hand over all your tuck-shop and dinner-money!