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.

MAN IS A DOG'S WORST FRIEND...

Not long after our dog TARA died, a pal asked me to look after his four-legged friend for a while, so I did.  Two weeks after my doggie-sitting term had ended, I bought a puppy, ZARA, who was the final dog out of three that my family had over a nearly 26 year period.  Let me tell you something - people who don't like dogs - or any animals in fact - and are untouched by an animal's death, are unnatural. There's something missing in them and they're very probably latent serial killers.

But that's another subject.  When Zara was a few months old and still in the process of getting her jags, I was sitting in the vet's one evening and a dog could be heard whining behind a door.  The vet came out to speak to me, and I caught a glimpse of a black dog which must've been tethered to a table leg or something. As I was speaking with the vet, the whining increased and the dog started scratching at the door and yelping.  I asked what was wrong with it and the vet replied "It's getting put to sleep."

Anyway, after my business was completed, I made my way home feeling a little sorry for the dog, but too delighted with my own pup to dwell on it.  A few years later, I ran into a friend, who mentioned that he'd been given the very canine that I'd once looked after, because its owner couldn't keep it any more.  "What hap-pened to it?" I enquired of him.  "I had to get it put down because..."  I forget the reasons why, but I asked him where he'd taken the poor dog, and, sure enough, it was the very vet's where I'd taken Zara for her course of injections.

I checked the timeline with him and it matched.  It was then I realized that the poor creature had been the dog behind the door, and must have recognized my scent or my voice - hence its frantic scratching, whining and yelping in an attempt to be rescued from what it must have sensed was its final fate.  And I had failed it, and it had gone to its end unloved and unwanted.

Looking back now, I'm not sure what I could have done, if anything, but it still bothers me every now and again to this day.  I'd only looked after it for a fortnight or so, and it wasn't as if it was 'my' dog, but that poor creature must've hoped I'd rescue it and I let it down, unaware of its identity though I'd been.  Humans are often pretty useless when it counts, and I was found amongst that particular number on that sad and pitiful day.  Alas, I no longer even recall the doomed dog's name.

Regrets?  I've had a few... and this was one of them.

GARDENS OF THE MIND...

I was passing my former house in an old neighbourhood yesterday and, acting on impulse, decided to 'catch a swatch' at the back garden.  I was saddened to see that the clothes poles and lawn were gone, and that the garden had been re-slabbed to cover the whole area.  It was a bit of a shock as the last time I'd seen it, it was pretty much as it had been in my day.

I'm glad I'd managed to get photographs of the garden back in 1988 and again in 1991, and preserved it as it used to be in the halcyon days of my childhood.  For 20-odd years after we'd flitted, the house and gardens (front and back) had remained mostly as I recalled them, but since then several significant changes have been made, and things as I'd known them are now a mere echo in the hallowed halls of history.

If I were ever to win the Lottery, I'd buy every house in which I've ever lived and restore them as much as possible to their former glory. In a completely self-indulgent wallow in nostalgia, I thought I'd take another walk around my old garden and permit you to accompany me.  It wasn't much, but it was mine - and shall forever remain so in the mystic bands of memory.  Now, follow me - the past is this way.

HAMMY HOUDINI - HE DEFIED DEATH, BUT ONLY ONCE, ALAS...

When I was - oh, I dunno - around ten I suppose, me and my brother had a pet hamster called (you'll never guess) HAMMY.  The name was inevitable, both of us having grown up on TALES Of The RIVERBANK, one of the WATCH WITH MOTHER TV shows for kids.  Hammy had a cage which was sometimes kept in the kitchen, sometimes in the garden cellar.  We would watch in rapt fascination as he raced 'round his wheel for what seemed an absolute age, presumably enjoying himself.  Now I realize it was probably out of frustration and because he was 'stir-crazy'.

One day, my brother announced that Hammy was dead, and with the morbid curiosity that most kids are heir to, we examined the corpse.  Poor Hammy.  We tenderly wrapped him up in a brown paper bag and gingerly laid him in the refuse bin in the back garden, then retired back to the living-room to mourn our departed pet.  But then I had a sudden brainwave. "Maybe he's only hibernating?" I speculated, so we retrieved Hammy from the bin and laid him before the electric fire in an attempt to revive him.

Sure enough, after a while, Hammy came out of his state of suspended animation and sniffed the air.  What a narrow escape and no mistake.  I'm unsure as to just how long Hammy was with us after his Lazarus impersonation, but one day I noticed he was missing from his cage in the cellar and a search of the confined space afforded no joy. Perhaps a week or so later, I found him dead in our watering can (in the cellar), and even today I cringe in horror at the thought of his despair as he waited for a rescue that never came.

I think this time we buried him in the garden instead of the bin, but at least there was absolutely no doubt he was actually dead. No consolation of course, but thankfully he was spared the awful fate of waking up as he was consigned to the grinding cogs of a bin lorry and meeting, perhaps, an even worse fate than the one which eventually claimed him.

Nearly 50 years later, I still think of Hammy on occasion, and find myself hoping he didn't suffer too much or for too long.  Any fellow Mellows out there ever have a childhood pet which they still fondly remember today? Resurrect them for a brief period by telling us all about them in the comments section.

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW...

Do you remember, as a youngster, making your way home on a dark evening after a day out adventuring, and, as you caught sight of your house, glimpsing the amber glow of the standard lamp in your living-room, penetrating the curtains like a beacon to light your way home?  Do you recall the sudden surge of renewed energy that infused your weary limbs, egging you on as you realised you'd soon be warm and comfy in familiar surroundings?

So do I!  In fact, 33 years ago, after my family had moved to a new house in another neighbourhood, I'd sometimes pass my former domicile on dark nights and trying to recapture that feeling, as I hadn't lived long enough in our new residence to have re-created the experience.  I'd see the light emanating from my previous home and imagine for a moment that I still lived there. Then the moment would pass and I'd set course for my new abode some distance away, warmed and fortified by memories of earlier times.

Nowadays, I reminisce fondly about that magical experience whenever I pass one of my former homes on a dusky evening, and as I've said elsewhere before, I sometimes feel that I could wander up the path of any of my previous houses, put my key in the lock, and walk in to find everything just as it used to be.  You'll find that it doesn't matter how much you enjoy going out, holidaying abroad, or travelling the world - nothing compares to that sudden electric thrill of recognition on catching that first sight of home and hearth when you return.

Dulce Domum indeed.

  

IS THE WORLD GETTING SMALLER, OR AM I GETTING BIGGER?

Compare the scene above with the one below.  The first photo was taken circa 1988, the second one was taken today - from approximately the same pov as the top pic.  Look at how congested and narrow the street now seems compared to how it once was.  My town was built to accommodate Glasgow's 'overspill' and had large areas of green within and around the town to make it open and spacious, unlike the confined housing schemes of the City which had become overcrowded.

The green areas within were part of the plan, but almost 30 years ago were re-designated as 'under-developed land', which has resulted in them being crammed with just about any buildings that'll fit.  The town no longer has that open and spacious feel, and I deplore the change.  Where is it all going to end?  It doesn't look as if it's going to be any time soon.

Planners don't seem to take account of the fact that, if you build housing on playing fields, there are fewer play areas for the larger number of kids that will inhabit the area.  More homes for families to live in, less space for children to play.  Why can't those who make these sort of decisions see that overcrowding a neighbourhood that was originally designed and built with 'breathing space' is a recipe for disaster in the future?

Is the same thing happening where you live?  Have a vent in our comments section and feel better for it.

IF ONLY EVERYTHING OLD WAS NEW AGAIN...

Just around the corner from my house is a block of flats that's recently had some renovation work carried out (new roof slates and rough-casting).  One of the paths that leads to the back of the flats suffered some broken paving slabs in the process and half of the path was replaced with nice new slabs.

I was struck by how fresh, clean and smooth they were in comparison to the old ones, and it reminded me of how new my town used to look back in the 1960s and '70s.  There are two colours which I used to associate with my town - grey and green.  Grey (a nice light, bright grey) for the buildings, lampposts and paths, and green for all the grassy areas and fields that once existed (but now seem to have been built on).

Looking at the surviving half of the original path, it was old and worn and discoloured, much as large portions of the town now seem to be.  (And when I catch sight of my reflection, as I also now seem to be.)   If only the place could re-capture that 'fresh and new' look it once had, as too much of it appears a little shabby and dilapidated compared to years ago.

Is it any wonder that yesterday can often seem far more appealing than today or tomorrow?

CHILDHOOD CAPERS - CHAPTER TWO: 'A STICKY SITUATION'...

I've lived in many houses over the years, but there's one in which I stayed for around only 15 months back in 1964 and '65.  Curiously, it doesn't seem, in retrospect, that I lived there for any less duration than houses I inhabited for longer periods, despite the fact that I had only one Christmas and two birthdays in the place.  And even then, the second birthday (my 7th) fell on the day we flitted to another house, so I tend to associate that cheerful event more with my new abode than the old one.

That information doesn't have much to do with the tale I'm now about to relate, apart from the fact that it transpired in my short-term domicile mentioned above.  (Just setting the scene in my mind.)  As I type, it occurs to me that I may have already recounted this story, but I'll persevere anyway as, even if I have, it's bound to be new to some of you.

If I remember correctly, #41 was the 'doubler' I bought on the night...
but I had #42 at the same time.  I maybe even bought them together

My parents were out one night (not a common event), and an aunt had been drafted in to look after me and my brother.  In an act of generosity, she gave us two bob each, and we ran around the corner to CHAMBERS newsagent and spent it.  If I recall correctly, I bought another copy of an issue of TV21 which I'd already had and disposed of (I was fascinated by its pristine newness and indulged myself), and me and my bruv each bought a tube of BRITFIX 77, a polystyrene 'cement' for plastic model kits, as it always paid to be prepared. 

(Anyone remember Britfix 77?  It was 'the' glue of the '60s it seemed, and I'm not exactly sure when it disappeared. I think I've still got a later tube tucked away somewhere, but the 77 had been dropped by this time, and the design on the tube was different.  It was made by HUMBROL.)

Anyway, we returned to the house to survey our spoils.  I snapped the tip off the end of my glue's nozzle and put in a pin, the customary method used for resealing the tube to prevent the glue drying up or leaking.  As this was also what my sibling usually did ('twas he who showed me), I did the same for his tube, thinking I was being helpful.  He took exception to my act of consideration and flew into a temper tantrum, throwing the glue on the carpet and stamping on it.  The result of this was to expel the contents of the tube directly onto my aunt's black velvety ankle boots, newly acquired not too long before.

Understandably, being a mere woman (sexist?  Moi?), she got all emotional and started crying, squealing about the ruination of her fancy footwear.  "On, my new boots, my new boots!" she wailed over and over.  "It was Gordon's fault!" my brother blurted, somewhat disingenuously.  She eventually calmed down, but my parents had to reimburse her for the cost of the boots (a fiver).  However, perhaps because she'd been so emotional at the time of the incident, she only seemed to remember my brother's attribution of the 'accident' to me (though I was quick to offer the correct account of events), and it was his version which was relayed to my parents.

I recall this page from #41 because I cut out the figure
of Steve.  Handy thing having a spare issue, eh?

Some time later, while visiting my gran (my aunt's mother obviously), she referred to 'my' crime of ruining the boots, so obviously it was believed by other members of the family that I'd been the perpetrator of that particular infraction, not my brother.  Whether they thought I'd been the one who stamped on the glue, or were simply holding me accountable because they considered my act of removing the tip (but resealing the tube, remember) as the provocation for my brother's outburst, I couldn't say with any certainty.  Not that it matters much as, either way, I was blamed for something I hadn't actually done.

Consequently, I always detected a certain amount of antipathy towards me from that set of relatives, who never seemed to quite take to me.  They appeared to think the world of my bruv though, but then again, he always was an ingratiating little 'sook' when it came to currying their favour, whereas I didn't actually give a fig whether they liked me or not.

Still feel the same way actually - as do they.  25-odd years later, two other aunts (not the one with the boots) 'phoned my mother, but didn't immediately hang up at their end when the conversation finished.  The answerphone was on in case anybody from IPC called me about work, as my parents found it hard to make out English accents on the other end of the 'phone, and often forgot to pass on messages anyway.  The answering machine continued to record, and what followed was a vicious, vitriolic, slanderous diatribe about me between the two aunts, which I still have on tape to this day.

Remind me to tell you the details on a future occasion.  It really is a shocker.

THE 'GOOFY' LETTERS...

Mr. TOM TIERNEY and granddaughter STACEY

In November 1965, my family moved into a new neighbourhood - new to us, as well as being only two years 'new' itself.  I can no longer state with any certainty whether it was on the first or subsequent evening that my brother and myself met the other local kids, but I do remember one of them introducing the group to us. "Hi, I'm Tony and this is my brother Kenny," said one of them.  Tony was TONY TIERNEY, and it should come as no surprise to you to learn that his wee brother shared the same surname.  (This was the '60s remember, when siblings tended to have the same parents.)

There were others there too, to whom Tony introduced us in turn, but I no longer recollect the precise roll call.  Probably ROBERT FORTUNE and GRAHAM BROWN, along with GUS MARTIN and KENNY McLEOD maybe, but I do seem to recall there being around four or five in total.  I ran into Gus in Glasgow a few weeks back, and Kenny called in today to deliver the pics you see in this post. Which brings me to the point.

Daughter GERALDINE and her dad

Kenny's father, TOM (who I always called Mr. Tierney) was a regular letter writer to the local newspaper (and others).  He wrote under the nom de plume of 'GOOFY' and his missives offered an often whimsical view of life in general, and also opinions on issues relating specifically to things happening within the town.  His alter-ego enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity status among a loyal group of readers, whose daily lives were cheered by exposure to his latest thoughts, theories and fancies.  If he were alive today, he'd doubtless have a blog of his own.

Tom's wife ALICE.  (Or Mrs. Tierney to me.)  Blackpool 1977

I mentioned him in a previous post a while back, and Kenny was much touched by the fact, and, I believe, derived a certain pleasure from seeing his father's literary contributions receiving public recognition, even on such a low-key outlet as this blog.  I asked him to provide a photograph or two of his dad so I could add one to the other post (which I have), but I thought I'd do another one specifically on Mr. Tierney, as he was such a fixture of the neighbourhood for so many years.

I have extremely fond memories of living in that neighbourhood -  for nearly seven of the most formative years of my life.  Most of the friends I know today, I first met back then, and it's been a source of some surprise to me over the years to learn just how many of them thought I still lived there many years after having moved away, so strongly did they associate me with the place.  Of course, the fact that I was often back in the area probably helped cement that idea in their minds.

A slightly blurred screen-grab of Mr. Tierney's 'scooter' in his back garden, shot from my
bedroom window in a video I made of my old house in 1991 - 19 years after I'd moved

There are quite a few folk who remind me of the area, but none moreso, I guess, than Mr. Tierney.  No doubt he's putting about on his little scooter in a finer place than this one, mentally composing his next letter to The Heavenly Times.  And I'll bet they're enjoyed up there every bit as much as they were down here.  In fact, he's probably been made editor by now.  So here's to 'Goofy' - he may be gone, but he'll definitely never be forgotten.

Mr. Tierney, with KENNY & TONY

ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN YESTERYEAR...

Once upon a time, in a faraway country called The Past, there was a shop named MODATOYS.  I don't think that was its sole name during its entire lifespan, as a nagging voice tells me it was also christened TOYTOWN at one stage and maybe even something else at another.  However, as I remember it as Modatoys, that's how I'll refer to it now.  (It also sold books, games, and other things.)

The shop opened in the early '70s (if not earlier) and was around until the late '80s (if not later), and I still have several items I bought from the place over the years.  A pair of mini-binoculars (with compass and mirror), The WIND In The WILLOWS (a hardback and a paperback), TOAD Of TOAD HALL, MOONFLEET, THREE LITTLE GREY MEN (and its sequel, Three Little Grey Men GO DOWN The BRIGHT STREAM).

I also have a TWIKI figure from BUCK ROGERS, a couple of red paintbrushes, two chess sets & boards (different sizes), and perhaps one or two other things.  Oh, and the paperback book you can see at the top of this post - ALICE'S ADVENTURES In WONDERLAND.  I bought it on a magnificently hot summer's afternoon in 1973 or '74 (so I'd still have been a schoolboy), and one glance takes me back to that time quicker than Dr. WHO's TARDIS.

When I leaf through its pages, the shop still exists, my demolished schools yet stand in their prime, and the 'new town' in which I live is exactly as it was back then - smaller, brighter, cleaner, newer.  Everything is as it was, even if only for a few fleeting moments, but oh, what welcome moments they are.  I wish I could show you the interior colour photographs in the book, but I can't open it wide enough to scan without damaging, and that would never do.

Readers, do you have a book or item that serves the purpose of a time machine and takes you right back to an earlier era from which you're loath to depart?  Why not tell your fellow Mellows about it in the comments section?  Go on - it's good to share.  So here's to The Past - sometimes it's the only thing to look forward to!

CHILDHOOD CAPERS - CHAPTER ONE...

Image copyright DC COMICS

It was around 1970/'71, and myself and two pals were leaning on a railing outside a row of apartments above the neighbourhood shops.  Passing below were three thuggish, slightly older females who hung around with the local neds.  They glared up at us.  "Whit ur you f*ckin' lookin' at?"  they trilled in their delicate, girlish way (sarcasm).  "Dunno - the label's fallen off!" I yelled back.  The gauntlet had been thrown down, and the trio of nasty nedettes responded by mounting the stairway, their Doc Martins pounding the steps in pursuit of ourselves.

I say 'pursuit' because the moment I opened my gob, the other two legged it and I followed.  These girls were bigger and older than us, and as hard as nails.  Having been brought up never to hit a 'girl', we'd have been at a distinct disadvantage trying to defend ourselves against the furious assault that was surely forthcoming. We fled past the front of the apartments towards the door to the interior stairway which led down to the shops below.

We reached the bottom door with a sigh of relief.  Once we were through that exit, our safety was secure and an inglorious fate would be avoided.  Alas, 'twas not to be - the door was locked, being early evening, and that avenue to freedom was denied us.  We considered going back up the stairs to the first floor offices above the shops and below the apartments, and using the corridor leading to the library to make our escape.  Too late!  We heard the 'girls' on the steps and realized discovery was imminent.  What to do?

Then I had a brainwave!  The bottom flight of stairs wasn't closed off, allowing us to seek shelter under them, so I beckoned my comrades to conceal themselves as I did likewise.  We bunched together tightly, as the merest glance under the stairway would've revealed our presence, and tried hard not to make a noise.  The nedettes pushed and pulled at the locked door, then grunted in frustrated rage.  "They must've got out on the first floor!" one snorted.  We expected them to return to the upper levels again, but they plonked themselves down on the steps above us and each lit up a cigarette.

We moved not a muscle and feared even to breathe, lest we betray ourselves.  After a seeming eternity (but was actually only a couple of minutes or so), they ascended the stairs and made their exit, amidst much muttering and detailed descriptions of what damage they'd inflict if they saw us.  We stayed rigid for a few moments longer, but once their voices were no longer audible, we exhaled a collective sigh of relief.  What a narrow escape and we knew it.  I can't recall any other moment in my life when I felt more alive, every sense attuned to my surroundings, and I'm sure my two friends felt the same.  (I wonder if they even remember it now?)

Even today, I think back to that moment and recall how I felt at the time; the excitement, the exhilaration, the fear, and, of course, the sheer relief and gratitude at having survived a precarious predicament unscathed.  It was like something from a 3 Investigators book or a Mission Impossible episode - a truly thrilling moment that lives on forever in my mind, and reminds me that, once, my life was more than the uneventful series of events it is now.  I felt like James Bond, even though, at that time, I'd not yet seen a Bond film.  However, I knew that anyone who had a real car like my Corgi Toys Aston Martin must be a cool guy in the face of danger - much like myself, in fact (he said, modestly), as the tale I've just related surely testifies.

Okay, so, technically, we ran away from three girls - but only because we didn't want to have to hurt them.  (Well, that's my story and I'm darn well sticking to it.  Wanna argue?)

Ever been in a similar situation?  Then let's hear all about it in the comments section, o fellow Mellows.  Spill the beans!

PART TEN OF SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - THE LABRADOR 'SAUSAGE' DOG...

Mr. CURRY was the janitor of the second primary school I attended.  He lived in the end house of the fourth row down from mine, straight across from the school, and his house came with the job.  Imagine my surprise when, a year or two after we'd flitted to a new house and neighbourhood, I noticed that Mr. Curry had become janitor of the primary school just around the corner from us.  His house (that again came with the job) stood in splendid isolation in the school grounds.

Before flitting, I'd been a secondary school pupil for nearly two years, but Mr. Curry was still a regular sight on account of him passing my house to or from the pub on the far side of the shops across the street.  It was therefore a tad strange when, after we'd flitted, he again became a regular sight to me in my perambulations around my new neighbourhood, either when I passed the school on my way to the town centre, or saw him walking home from his local public house.  He liked a drink, did Mr. Curry.  Died quite a few years ago now.

Let's now jump back to when I was yet living in my former neighbourhood and was still a primary school pupil, sometime around 1968, give or take a year either way.  While gazing out of the window of the annexe huts across from the main building one afternoon, I saw Mr. Curry taking a kick at a Golden Labrador which appeared to be seeking shelter in the doorway.  His kick may have connected, but I couldn't say with certainty after all this time.  I was shocked to see an adult behave in such a heartless manner towards one of man's best friends, and felt sorry for the poor animal.

The very doorway.  The school was demolished
nearly two years ago.  Photo taken circa 1984

Later that evening, coming back from a pal's house, I saw that the dog was again sheltering in the school doorway.  Had it been abandoned?  Was it lost?  Or had it tracked down its young master to the school and was now faithfully waiting for him to emerge from the building, not realizing that he'd gone home several hours before?  I told my father about the dog, and, along with my brother, we went down to the school and brought the dog home with us.  It was a friendly animal, and hungrily scoffed the cold link sausages we fed it from the fridge.

My father, who worked for the police, arranged for them to collect the poor dog and house it in their kennels 'til collected by its lawful owners.  He later informed us that the canine had been claimed, but even at the young age I then was, I wondered if he was telling us what had actually happened or what he knew we wanted to hear.  Many years later, I saw inside the station kennels for strays, and they were the dirtiest, smelliest, vilest quarters imaginable.  To think that, if the dog wasn't reunited with its owners, it had spent its last days in such conditions is awful to contemplate.

I never much liked Mr. Curry after that, though, truth to tell, I hadn't much liked him before, but he fell even further in my estimation from then on.  Strange thing is, whenever I see a Golden Labrador now, I can't help but think of that poor beast from so long ago, and still find myself hoping that it was a happy ending all round for the dog and its owners.

Sometimes there are some things we're better not knowing, don't you think?  Just in case.