From the mechanical age to the age of artificial intelligence

When I was a boy... that was a long time ago now, at least sixty years and almost seventy from my first memories - a vague recollection of King George VI's visit to South Africa when I was two-and-a-half - apparently the King smiled at me, according to my mother but I can take that with a pinch of salt, because I saluted my small hand held up against my brow below a pancake of mt then bright blond hair - but all I can recall, or think I recall, was a big, shiny black car passing by while people waved flags and cheered).

The Broons

My first clear memories are from 1950 when at age 5, I lived for almost a year in Dundee. The streets were cobbled, the old trams were running; 'old' men looked like characters out of the cartoon strip 'The Broons' (Sunday Post) with waistcoats and fob watches, many with large moustaches, flat tweed cloth caps, and many smoked pipes. 

There were many horse drawn carts - milk carts, costermongers with horse and cart selling fruit and vegetables. Other men wore trilby style hats and some 'posh' men in pin-strip trousers wore bowler hats. Women tended to wear hats too, or head scarves. On a Sunday, many would wear fur coats or have a fox-fur neck wrap. 

TV was to all intents and purposes, unknown - 

we had large valve radios in living rooms. 

Women seemed to be obsessed with washing their front steps. 

My grandmother, Grannie Mem (Jemima) did not own a washing machine (few homes had one) so she took her washing to the 'steamie' - a public steam laundry - her 'washing' transported there in a converted pram. Then she'd bring it home to be put trough a 'mangle' - a wringer a mechanical laundry aid consisting of two rollers in a sturdy frame, connected by cogs and, in its home version, powered by a hand crank. It was hard work - especially when bedding was washed - usually by tramping on it in the home bath (a bit like squashing grapes to make wine!) The clothes were then hung on drying racks on a pulley system that lowered the racks from the kitchen ceiling and then raised them again.

We didn't own a refrigerator (a 'fridge') in the 1950s - just used the old food safe (see picture) usually kept in a cool and draughty place - and sometimes covered in hot weather with a wet muslin cloth which waskept moist by placing its ends in a basin of water. To keep butter cool, many used a butter cooler, crocheted from porous cotton thread and weighed down with beads.

(It was easier to crochet a perfect round than to knit one.) The cooler was made wet and placed in a dish of water (not shown) so that the edges dipped into the water. This kept the entire crochet wet, and the evaporation caused cooling. 

US sailors boarding Edinburgh electric tramcar in 1947

The 'old' trams were still running in both Dundee and Edinburgh, sparks flying from the above-head lines when trams crossed at junctions. Trams and buses still had conductors (and they continued on the buses until the 1970s, happily providing me, and my brother with employment during the summer vacations in our student days). Many people did not own cars in the 1950s and early 1960s. Travel beyond the immediate area in which you lived was unusual - so daring to travel to the continent (Europe). Airfares were very expensive and cheaper, but longer, travel was still common on ships. My brother, Donald, travelled to New York on a ship from Southampton in 1966 - I hitch-hiked down from Scotland to see him off.

Transistor radio or 'trannie'

I remember returning from Nigeria (where my father worked in 1959-60) with a small portable transistor radio in 1959 - quite a sensation when I showed it to friends at school. 'Trannies' became the 'must have' electronic device of the early 1960s! (NB Not transvestites as in contemporary expression.) But in many ways it did signal the beginning of the electronic age.

My father's struggle to run a chemist shop

When we returned from central Africa in 1953 it was mainly for the sake of my brother Donald's health. He had suffered for a number of years from sinusitis and related breathing problems in Northern Rhodesia (today's Zambia) and doctors had advised that he return to Britain. My father loved Africa and was reluctant to return, but did so for Donald's sake. The plan was that Donald would become  boarder at George Watson's Boys College in Edinburgh for a year while my father, a pharmacist, looked for a place to buy or establish his own chemist shop. However, my father also harboured the thought that, if Donald settled into his new school (where he was in his first year of secondary education), the rest of the  family might return to Africa.

As it turned out, Donald was very unhappy in boarding at Watson's. His boarding master was 'Butcher' Watson, the sadistic head of PE at Watson's. He punished the boys 'in his care' with fiercesome regularity and in nasty ways. One punishment was reserved for the boy who returned last (albeit  'in time') from a week-end leave. as a result, Donald fretted all day on the Sunday of a 'home weekend' that he would be the last to report in to Mr Watson. The lats boy back into boarding would be forced to crawl the length of the dining table while the other boys kicked him. Any boarder suspected of not kicking hard enough would also have to crawl under the table, so all the boys made sure they gave the 'offender' a good kick or two as he crawled passed. Years later, after breaking a boy's legs in the gym, the school finally sacked 'Butcher' Watson - although clearly the school authorities would have known of his reputation as a sadist without doing anything about it. 

As related elsewhere, my father took locum positions for chemists all over the UK - meaning we moved from guest house to guest house for the best part of a year with devastating consequences for my schooling and my 'fear' of school that stayed with me until senior years at high school. Finally, he took a position as manager of the Co-operative Society Chemist shop at Ormiston in East Lothian. By which time it was clear that Donald could not continue as a boarder at Watson's and my father decided to saty in Scotland and open his own shop. He found a suitable property in the Main Street of Pathhead in Midlothian on the A68, a main road from Edinburgh south to England. The attraction was that Pathhead had no chemist shop and the nearest ones were at Dalkeith some 5 miles to the north and at Lauder about 12 miles south. It seemed perfect, especially as my father had special qualifications as a veterinary pharmacist, and Pathhead was a country location surrounded by estates and farms.

The doctors' surgery, led by a Dr Ireland, had been able to act for many years as a dispensing surgery, that is, the doctors both prescribed and dispensed prescriptions - a very lucrative operation (as they only had to stock the drugs they knew they would prescribe). Dr Ireland fought hard to prevent my father opening his chemist shop for once a pharmacy was established all the dispensing of prescription drugs had to be done through the chemist shop. With advice and legal aid from the Phamaceutical Society, my father won the battle. But it was something of a pyrrhic victory as Dr Ireland set about trying to destroy my father's business. 

It was a relatively easy, but unscrupulous thing to do. Dr Ireland, with his previous experience as a dispensing doctor, knew that certain drugs (potions and pills) had to be purchased in volume. He would prescribe a drug for say 12 pills to be dispensed, then move onto another drug, leaving my father with large amounts of stock on his shelves in the back-room pharmacy of his chemist shop untouched. Also, these were still the days when pharmacists often had to make-up a prescribed potion from various 'base' ingredients. all this stock had to be paid for by my father up-front - and I recall his anger and despair at the way Dr Ireland was undermining him.

Yet Dr Ireland was a church elder and prominent in local affairs - so much so that he was awarded an OBE (made a member of the Order of the British Empire) just two years or so after we moved to Pathhead. I remember my father snorting in disgust and saying, 'Yes, the OBE: it stands for Other Bodies Efforts!' 

The other thing that Dr Ireland did was to go slow with his evening surgery so that evening after evening my father would have his chemist shop open with few people coming down from the doctors' surgery until there would be a 'rush' of patients with prescriptions coming in just before and after 8 PM - so that my father would not be able to shut up shop until close to 9 PM. The other doctor was a Dr Stewart who got on well with my father, but their relationship didn't really develop until after Dr Ireland's retirement.

Despite these difficulties, my father made a success of his business - and had a glowing reputation among the villagers. He made up his own potions to treat various problems, but always had to caution people to go and see the doctor - as he knew it would be big trouble if Dr Ireland could prove that Mr Edmonds was 'diagnosing' and 'treating' patients. In fact, my father was a practising 'community pharmacist' long before that concept became accepted.

Mr Jim Gregor, the gamekeeper on the Callendar estate, with whom I worked for many years, first as a beater and then as team leader (rounding up village lads who were prepared to go up to the moors to beat the grouse towards the guns), always spoke with admiration about my father. 
'Yer faither wis a grand man, the best chemist I've ever met. He could make up a potion tae cure an itch - and he gave me something I'd tak wi' the Belhaven stout he said would do me the world o' guid - an' it did! We were a' that sorry when he have the business up - and we had to gang back to the surgery.'

For yes, when my father finally threw in the towel and went back to Africa (to Northern Nigeria as deputy head of medical supplies), the doctors' surgery applied again to become a dispensing surgery - and won a concession from the Pharmaceutical Society that they would not support another pharmacy opening in the village.

First awakening of a social conscience

I well remember the first occasion that I felt something akin to outrage at what I perceived to be  - albeit in a work of fiction - a social injustice, that is something I thought just wasn't fair.

I was seven going on eight. There was a story in my school reading book about a Dutch farmer and a farm worker, who was fed each lunch-time with bread and cheese. Eventually, the farm worker asked the farmer if he could have some variety in his lunchtime meal, to which the farmer agreed.

However, the next day the farmer again provided just bread and cheese to the farm labourer. When the labourer complained that the farmer had not kept his word that he would provide a different lunch from braed and cheese, the farmer replied, 'Oh, but I have. Today you're getting cheese with bread.'

It was, of course, meant to be funny, but I couldn't see the humour in it, only the injustice. It was the beginning of a life-long concern about injustice.

'sports' I was involved with as a boy relating to the Olympics

These 'memories' were jogged by me thinking as I watched (on TV) the Rio Olympics (2016). What Olympic sports have I been involved with or tried at one time or another?

Let's start in the pool. Living in central Africa and with access to the marvellous swimming pool (and diving boards) at the Luanshya Club (no doubt provided by the copper mining company Rio Tinto Zinc), I was quite a good swimmer - and a diver (from the spring board and the first level of the high boards), so on returning to Scotland and going to a school where they had a swimming pool (George Watson's Boys College) when I was 10, I was a 'natural' - but it didn't last long as  began to pile on 'puppy fat' (a natural occurence or due to the more indoor lifestyle and my fondness for all the wrong food - chip butties, fish and chips, suet puddings, jelly pieces (ie Bread and jam), and anything sweet). 

Then there was cycling. Like almost all kids, I had a bike. There were 'family-  road trips (cycling from Pathhead to the coast - and back - usually North Berwick: so quite a distance, 30-40 miles); later cycling to school in Dalkeith (not very often) or to visit friends who lived at or near Blackshiels (again about a 5 mile ride). There was also playing at being at the speedway - usually with village friends down in the nearby woods - what we'd call mountain biking today - only with standard bikes, BMX days etc. being way in the future. 

Athletics. It was compulsory at school - so I tried long jump, hop, skip and jump, the high jump (straddle jump only), throwing the discus and javelin, putting the shot, and running (including hurdles): all of which were a bit of a disaster for me. I was no good at the sprints either - so I made 'long distance' my 'speciality' - but even there I was at best second rate, but I tried. 

I recall as a fourteen year old trying out for the senior event, the mile, against older opposition, including 6th formers aged 18. I kept up with the pack for the first two of the four laps, but then started to fall behind and was 'lapped' early in the last lap, but valiantly pushed on - greatly embarrassed by Mr 'Fatso' Watson 'calling' the race on the loudspeaker system and shouting encouragement to me, 'Come on, Edmonds! Don't give up!' As if I had any intention of 'giving up'! 

Mind you, I could scarcely put one foot in front of the other so I can see know where he was coming from, but at the time I just kept wishing he would shut up so that spectators could ignore me and look at other events like the on-going jumping and so forth. But no, Mr Watson kept the attention on me and encouraged the spectators to applaud me over the line. Perhaps some did, but the blood was pounding in my ears and my lungs seemed to be about to burst and my legs were beginning to feel not only a dead weight, but wobbly with it. After that, Athletics for me, except during compulsory PE, became a spectator sport.

As for boxing and wrestling (or even judo),  participated in forms of these 'sports' but only when challenged - to a play-ground or after school fight that is. Boxing would start upright and exchanging blows that vaguely resembled something of the Queensberry rules of pugilism, but soon descended - literally and figuratively - into wrestling/judo - grappling with another trying to pin him down. I had some success with the latter. I recall being challenged to a 'fight' at Ormiston Primary School and managed to get the challenger down and then I pushed his head against the railings - it must have looked like I was trying to push his head through the railings - and he was in some discomfort/pain and 'gave up.' Now whether or not he would have resumed the attack on me when I released my hold on his head, I know not, because at that moment the Janie (janitor) arrived to 'break up' the fight. So I was the undisputed victor - and I was never challenged again at that school.

Being challenged to a fight - and often more than one fight - was obviously a rite of passage or an initiation for new boys at school in those days. As explained elsewhere, I attended many primary schools. My primary school days began and ended at 'independent' schools, both of which by coincidence had maroon uniforms - Harris Academy, Dundee, and George Watson's Boys College, Edinburgh. In between, I had a few years at Luanshya primary school and then about a dozen two-week attendances at various schools through England and Scotland while my father took on locums at various chemist shops in various towns. Then there was half a year at Ormiston Primary School, followed by a term at Pathhead Primary School, before finishing with three years at Watson's.

I was never challenged to a fight at Harris Academy or, to my best recollection, at Luanshya, nor at Watson's, but particularly at the Scottish schools it seemed de rigeur for lads to challenge the new boy - especially one with what they thought was a Sassenach (English) accent, mistaking my Rhodesian clipped tomes for English. I recall returning many times from school at Pathhead with a blood nose and skinned knees. There were two lads in particular who went out of their way to challenge me - Rob McNiven and James (I'm sure it was 'James' not 'Jim' or any other name) McQueenie. There was an Andy, too - or was it Andy McQueenie?

Anyway, the usual thing was for these lads, with others, to follow me down the Main Street from the school challenging me to a fight 'in the park' - a playground that lay beyond my father's shop - and a place I did not intend to visit in order to fight. So I'd be called 'feart' and 'a cowardy custard' until a ring of my fellow school pupils would surround me before I reached the safety of my father's shop: so it was a bit like a 'boxing ring.'  One of Rob/James/Andy would demand that I 'put up my dukes,' ie, raise my fists in boxing fashion. Then there would be some 'dancing around' while the crowd of kids chanted, 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' - not so much a demand that we start to exchange blows but a kind of announcement to the world that a fight was about to get under way - almost a 'ringing of the bell' as it were. 

The fight proper began, when my challenger pounced forward with a flurry of blows usually aimed at my head, forcing me to retreat - but not far, as the wall of fight supporters surged forward to push me 'away from the ropes' and into the middle of the ring to accept my pummelling. Try as I may, I never seemed to be able to land a decent blow - or if I did it seemed to hurt my knuckles and wrist more than it did the challenger. In return, I'd cop a few hard smacks in the face, often enough to start a nose bleed, before the crowd urged their hero on with advice to 'Knee him where it hurts!' - 'Gi'e him a fat lip!' - 'Put the heid on him! (Head butt) - or simply, 'Get him doon!' 

The last remark had nothing to do with giving me a knock out blow, as that rarely if ever happened in such fights, but the fight ritual seemed to demand that the one defeated should be on the ground, held down by the other, who would continue to smack, punch, pinch, and even pull the hair, all the time asking, 'Gi'e up?' - an affirmative answer not guaranteeing an end to the punishment as there was usually some other demand designed to humiliate. In my own case, it was to admit that I was a Sassenach - something simply couldn't do! So there would be further slapping and punching or pushing my head into the dirt. Inevitably, tears would flow - yes because real pain had been inflicted but also because of the embarrassment - and, in my case, a kind of outrage at the unfairness of it all, the stupid name-calling by those standing around - and sometimes their cowardly and unfair kicks - as well as the shame at being beaten, ie being a loser.

The tears, of course, only made things worse. The name-calling and abuse intensified. 'Cry baby!' and other similar taunts, usually from others, both girls and boys, who would not try to take me on themselves. Eventually, and perhaps it was never more than five minutes, someone, always an adult, Mrs xx who lived opposite my father's shop, or perhaps a passer-by, would put a stop to the fight. Occasionally, it would be the challenger who, not knowing what more  do, would get up, give me a last dismissive kick, and declaring me 'useless' as if to indicate he was wasting his time on someone who hadn't made a proper fight of it. Surrounded by his admiring followers, he'd go off in triumph, leaving me to pick myself up and make my home, pinching my nose to stop the blood flow.

Mind you, if I had it bad, it was nothing like the torment my younger sister was put through, hair-pulled slapped, and pushed to the ground by some very nasty little girls - a nightmare that continued for at leas a year longer than what I had to suffer as she continued at Pathhead primary school after I went off to Watsons'.

Other sports - well,they included golf this time and that has been my number one sport for the majority of my life. Although, sadly, I didn't take it up until after my father's death. He did age 56 when I was 21 - and golf was his sport - and, therefore, not looked kindly on by my mother. To play would have been regarded as a 'betrayal' of sorts!

I've also tried basketball, hockey - both at school and in later as an adult in Australia. Could  not stand the sledging - and the dirty play (yes, even in basketball which I had been told was a non-contact sport). I only tried these for recreation and pleasure and could not see the point of all the hassle and bad feelings generated.

I've also played (and that's the operative word as these were all holiday activities rather than sports) beach volleyball, kayaking/canoeing, trampolining, and horse-riding (hacking). The last was more a case of the horse taking me for a ride - on one occasion at Buderim in the 1980s, my horse reached the 'turning' point and set off for the stables at the gallop - with me hanging on for dear life (and losing a rather decent bushman's hat that blew off)! Somehow I clung on -  and that was as close I came to 'eventing' - but, no, I'm no horseman, and therefore full of admiration for those I watch in the jumps, cross-country event, and dressage.

I tried some pistol shooting, with Greg Smith a friend, colleague and gun enthusiast, at Bunbury for a few weeks. And at Scripue Union camps as a lad I tried archery. But, I clearly don't have the best eye and in both sports rarely hit the target.

I've also tried a bit of rowing - in two-some sculls - with Dr Richard Hutch in my early days at Emmanuel College; and in Bunbury for about three seasons in Bunbury in the late 1970s, I was a member of the Koombana Bay Sailing Club. And I also given tennis a go - just social games - but I was always keen to run down even impossible balls - and as I grew older I had a few nasty falls, including a wrist injury that continues to play up from time to time - so I gave the tennis away, a pity 'cos I think I'd enjoy playing in the cooler conditions in England, considerably more accommodating than the heat and humidity of Queensland.

So all in all, not a bad total of Olympic sports that I've had a go at - and because I'm very much at the ordinary end of things, I am full of admiration for all who compete - at whatever level.

More teachers, tyrrants and tawse.. my secondary school days

I had six years at Dalkeith High School. My first year in 1957/58 and my last 1962/63. These years began the Space Age with the Russians launching the first satellite, Sputnik, in October 1957, followed in 1961 by the first man in space, again a Russian, Yury Gagarin. It was the height of the Cold War and we all lived with the threat of nuclear war - and came very close during the Cuban Crisis in 1962.  President John F Kennedy was the hero of that hour - and my school years were barely over when tragically JFK was assassinated on 22 November 1963 (when I was in my first term of 1st year at Edinburgh University). Despite the 'big picture' background, these years were largely good years for me. They were also my adolescent years; and years when my family situation changed dramatically.

I had some very good teachers at DHS. Most were respected, few were feared, and many - especially in my senior years - were appreciated and liked; and they were all, more or less, fair.

The headmaster for my first two years was Dr McCowan - and he was feared. He was very 'old school' - and appropriately, he was the principal of the 'true' High School, a kind of grammar school (in fact, originally it was called Dalkeith Grammar School when established in the 16th century - first records from 1582 in the High Street - see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dalkeith_High_School), and he retired in 1959 when the school amalgamated with Kippielaw Secondary Modern School to form the 'comprehensive' Dalkeith High School on Newmills Road (A68) near the South Esk River Bridge. 

The principal of this 'new' school was a Mr Skinner (yes, Principal Skinner all these years before The Simpsons!), someone I never really liked or respected. Old 'Doc McCowan' seemed very harsh and everyone feared him, but he seemed to like me (goodness knows why - but possibly because in my brief initial interview with Dr McCowan, an old-fashioned socialist, I had hinted at my relief at getting away from Watson's Boys College).

There were five forms in each of the first three years, and then only two for the senior years (one for those in the Latin and foreign language stream and another for the non-Latin stream). The first year ('grammar') forms were assigned the letters A - D; and there was an E form for boy students who required remedial classes (achieving poorer results than the pupils at the Secondary School at Kippielaw) and possibly had behavioural problems (hence separated from girls? For although all other classes were co-educatonal, they were boys only). These boys were tough - and we all feared them. 

Unfortunately, when we 'lined up' in the playground at the end of each recess, the rows lined up in years from right to left E - A, which meant that when I was in 1A I had to stand next to the boys in 2E; and when in 2A beside the boys in 3E. Of course, when you got to 3A you were the lined up next to the senior classes as there was no 4E, the 'bad boys' having left school at the end of their third year.

The school prefects were given charge of keeping order in the ranks, until starting with the first year classes, the lines of pupils filed into the school buildings. On one occasion in my second year, I got into a tussle, a bit of a push-and-shove, with one of the lads in 3E, a areal toughie! (I must have been mad!) Anyway, a prefect stepped in and told us to report to Dr McCowan 'for fighting.' The tough guy was suddenly quivering with fear.

'We're in for it noo! Doc McCowan hates me! It'll be six ' the best - and he really lays it on!' despite being a toughie, he almost cried as we made our way towards the main building where the headmaster's office was on the upper floor at the top of some wide steps.

I had learned from an incident involving a classmate, Jimmy Mawer, in my first year, that you had to get your explanation in fast as Dr McCowan reacted very, very quickly when a boy or boys were sent to his office. In Jimmy's case, he had been sent by Miss Wilson, our English teacher (and Head of English) to collect the Class Register from Dr McCowan's office (where she had had morning tea during the morning 'Break' - they were in fact a 'courting couple' and they married soon after they both retired in 1958). Jimmy had been so pleased to have been chosen by Miss Wilson  for this errand, but he returned to the class in tears and with his hands shaking. He had made the mistake of saying, 'Miss Wilson sent me...' and before he could finish his statement about collecting the Register, Dr McCowan had ordered him to raise his hands and given him six of the best before sending him on his way. Although, Miss Wilson, greatly distressed at this travesty of justice, hurried to Dr McCowan's office presumably to set the record straight, Dr McCowan did not send for Jimmy to apologise to him; and... Jimmy did not dare tell his father (who held the important position of Stationmaster at the nearby railway station of Eskbank) as he knew his father would dismiss any 'complaint' by saying that Jimmy probably 'deserved' the punishment for something else he had done! (Such were the attitudes to school punishment in those days.)

So I said to this 3E toughie, Johnnie,  'Let me do the talking - and just you agree with what I say.'

When we were called into Dr McCowan's office, I started right away by saying that there had been a mistake, I had stumbled and Johnnie here was good enough to catch me and stop me from falling, but the prefect had misinterpreted the situation, thinking we were fighting.'

'And am I to believe this story, Edmonds?'

'Dr McCowan, I can assure you that there is no way I would try to fight with Johnnie!'

'So there was no fight then?' asked Dr McCowan glaring at Johnnie.

'No, sir. It's like he said, sir.'

And with that we were dismissed. Johnnie almost hugged me as we went down the stairs - and for the remainder of that year I had nothing to fear from the boys of 3E - Johnnie saw to that! 

It was only time I had to appear before the Beak - and he let me off, perhaps, I suspected because he liked me but also because he probably believed my statement about not wanting to fight such a rough, tough and seasoned brawler.

In first term of 1st year, although in 1A, we had to take a term of Technical Drawing and Woodwork with Mr McKechnie, the head of that department. I don't think Mr Mckechnie liked the 1A boys much as he suspected that most if not all of us would opt to remain in the Latin-stream if we survived the end-of-term assessments. Anyway, he possessed a wooden yard stick with brass ends, and he had a rule that no boy was to pace hands on the wood-work bench top when he was demonstrating a wood cut, e.g. to make a dove-tail join. Inevitably, one of us would lean forward and, without thinking, steady ourself by placing a hand on the bench top. In a flash, Mr McKechnie would grab his yard stick and brig it down on the back of the 'offending' hand, the corner of the brass end drawing blood and leaving a nasty bruise. It hurt! But no-one complained, no one 'reported' him for cruelty or inappropriate discipline! 

The head of History, Mr James ('Jesse' James) was a likeable fellow - very tall and thin. He was English and had played cricket and so was the cricket coach. He was also provost of Dunbar. And he had a long-time affair with a girl/young woman by the name of Gilchrist who was Head Girl of the school (when I was in year 2 or 3). I once saw them 'snogging' (or perhaps more) in his car in a lay-by on the road to Edgehill above Dalkeith when I was cycling home from school. Anyway Head Girl Gilchrist went off to Edinburgh University, gained a History degree and a teaching diploma and returned to Dalkeith High School and her lover, Mr James (who made it clear he would never divorce his wife in Dunbar) as a history teacher in his department. 

Jesse James would pace up and down the rows of his classroom dictating notes to his pupils while we wrote down each precious word in our 'jotter.' He'd carry a cricket ball in the sleeve of his academic gown (almost all our teachers were so garbed) - and if he caught you 'not paying attention' or 'chatting,' he'd swing the sleeve around in an arc and the cricket ball would thump into your back - and it hurt!

Other teachers, many of them, would throw blackboard 'dusters' (made of wood on one side with a dust pad on the other) at anyone not paying attention or chatting. Sometimes the duster would merely hit your desk or land in the space between desks - but often it would hit you on your head, and depending on how hard it was thrown and whether it was the wood that connected or the pad, it could hurt!

Mr McCormack, or Corrie as he was known, was a short, dapper gent, and our Latin teacher (and later my Greek teacher too). He was a good teacher, but had his favourites, usually among the girls. He was an excellent teacher, but a strict disciplinarian. In my second year, he once caught me speaking to Avril Balloch, the first girl I ever 'dated' - we went to the Dalkeith Playhouse to see a film together. 

Corrie had previously issued a general warning about too much chatter in the classroom. In correcting me, Corrie offered me the alternative punishment of writing a hundred lines or two of the belt. He was probably giving me a way out, but in the circumstances (in front of my girl), I could scarcely take the 'soft' option - and so I chose to have the belt (the leather tawse). I think Corrie took this as a challenge as he looked very angry and he certainly laid two heavy blows on my hands (which were held out one on top of the other making the blow more effective!). It hurt! But I took it and walked back to my place without flinching: the combined look of pity and admiration on Avril's face more than making up for the numbing pain on my palms!

My Mathematics and Arithmetic  teacher for the first three years was Miss Burns, 'Teenie' Burns - she was no more than 5' in height. She used a wooden crate to stand on to write on the blackboard. She's skoosh it around in front of the class - one little leg kicking out like a Nazi trooper - sending the crate sliding over the wooden classroom floor. She ran a Scripture Union meeting at school - and I was active in the SU (went to Easter and summer camps for over ten years - see Boss's problem with little boys), so although my problems with Arithmetic continued (and to some extent carried over into Maths), she had a soft spot for me. She was a stickler for discipline and making pupils adhere to school rules, especially on uniform. She loathed any girl who attempted to wear the least hint of make-up or jewellery - I remember her screaming at a girl, calling her 'a hussy' who had dared to wear the smallest of studs in her earlobes. On one occasion, Teenie left the classroom (most unusual) and came back to find all of s chatting. She ordered us all to form a line, climbed onto her orange crate, and gave all of us one of the strap  remember the dux of the class, Hazel Watson, and her goodie-goodie friends, especially Norma Hendry, in tears as they had never ever been punished in that way. 

Later, in senior school Hazel and I became an item. before that, poor Norma had 'chased' me for at least years: I was always being told by her friends that 'she be thrilled' if I asked her out. Norma was a sweet girl with lovely brown eyes, but much as I liked her as a person, I could never become attracted to her. Or perhaps I suspected that Norma would be a 'one guy girl' and would be devastated when I inevitably wanted to play the field - and she was too nice to hurt. Norma lived in the posh suburb of Eskbank, as did Hazel, and her father was a BOAC pilot, so quite well-off. Norma took her 'Highers' in years 5 and 6 before becoming a nurse - and  I hope she found perhaps some nice doctor to marry. I'm sure she would be a loving wife and mother.

Mr - later Dr, and one of my lecturers at Edinburgh University - Newey was the head of Geography. He rarely used the belt/strap/tawse, but when he did he applied it in a thoroughly safe way - that at the same time made it feel worse -  a building of expectation of pain - as he wrapped a long scarf around your wrists to protect them from damage - and at the same time making your hands less pliable so that the leather stung them all the more. It was a clever combination of psychological and physical pain!

Mr Watson, Willie Watson, the Art Master, had been at the school - forever! His major contribution, apart from teaching Art, was in organising and coaching the rugby union teams. He was a very rotund figure - a real butter-ball, probably a former front-row prop. His right-hand man with rugby was the head of PE (Physical Education), a short, muscular man with red hair (I think his name was Smith, but I could be wrong), his size suggesting he would have been a scrum-half in his playing days. Later, just as I was leaving the school, I came to know that these two men were in a long term relationship. What struck me most was that, physically, they looked such an odd couple.

I gave up Art when I entered senior years, but Art Appreciation classes continued, particularly in my 5th year when the Leaving Certificate exams were over. I found these classes conducted by Mr Watson and his staff, illustrated via a slide show, very interesting and an important part of my broader liberal education.

I had two French teachers at high school, a Mr Scott, a handsome young man and quite refined. He taught German as well and I asked him one day if he liked the latest hit from Elvis Presley, Wooden Heart, recorded while Elvis was in the US Army in Germany to a folk song. Elvis's version included a few lines in German:

Muss i denn, muss i denn

Zum stadele hinaus

Und du, mein scaht, bleibst hier?

There's no strings upon this love of mine

It was always you from the start

Sei mir gut

Sei mir gut

Sie mir wie du, wirklich sollst

Wir du wirklich sollst

Cause I don't have a wooden heart.

Mr Scott almost sneered his reply... something like, 'Gracious no! The song's a travesty!'

I enjoyed his class but got into trouble one day because I hadn't done my homework and tried to dishonestly 'cover up.'  He asked us to write down various words in French from the vocabulary we had been set to learn. Out of 20 or 25 words, I had 11 wrong! Our work had been  marked by passing our jotter to the person across the passage way between desks. So I had marked Pat Walker's work and she mine. When Mr Scott asked those who had all the words correct to stand up, most of the class did so; then it was the turn of those who got one mistake and another group stood up. Mr Scot then asked those who got two mistakes to stand up; a few stood - and I joined them. Miss Patricia Walker let out a very audible gasp and then covered her mouth. It was all very noticeable and Mr Scott asked Pat what was wrong. She replied that she'd rather not say but cast a glance in my direction. Mr Scott then asked me if I had indeed made only two mistakes, to which I replied, 'Oh, yes, sir, I've just counted the up and I got a total of eleven wrong.' I expected immediate retribution, but Mr Scott asked me why I had stood up for only two mistakes - and I replied, probably to some gasps and sniggers from the rest of the class, that I thought that Pat had written 'two' as a Roman Numeral, i.e., 'II.' Mr Scott asked me to stay behind at the end of the class, and I fully expected to receive several of the belt. However, he spoke to me about being honest and how foolish  had appeared, and not to be so silly again. I probably felt more chastened by that than by received a whack of two from the belt.

The head of modern languages was Mr John Gallimore, or Jonny Pisa as we called him because he leaned over to the left side. He was a tall man with a shock of black hair that also fell over his forehead to the left. He was a gentle soul and something of an intellectual - and an eccentric. He lived in Eskbank and would follow the various horse and cart delivery wagons with a bucket and shovel to collect horse manure for his garden. He ran a Jazz club at lunchtimes once a week in his classroom and I attended along with others like Tommy Tye, a very bright little chap - and a good friend. We listened to the classics of jazz like Fats Waller, Benny Goodwin, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Pee Wee Hunt and the like.

For some reason, I was not very good at speaking French and did poorly in aural tests. When the examiner was due to assess Mr Gallimore's ranking of his class, he was concerned that I might be selected to speak with the examiner in French and tactfully suggested that I might report in 'sick' and have a day at home. Although as a former teacher, I know that inspectors attend to assess the teacher's performance not the pupils, in this case I think Mr Gallimore was genuinely (although with some duplicity) acting solely in my interests. 

Mr Cormack and Mr Gallimore were best friends - and they shared a common experience: they had both served during World War II in the RAF. I recall Corrie's angry response when he overheard us referring to Mr Gallimore as Jonny Pisa. He told us in no uncertain manner to show Mr Gallimore more respect - that his physical difficulties resulted from shrapnel wounds sustained  when the'plane he was hit by flack during a bombing raid over Germany. It was a sobering moment - and one that made us respect both men, not having previously thought that they had seen active service during the war.

The other teacher who had wartime experience that we knew of was a Miss or Mrs Wilson, a science teacher. She was fearsome. I suspect she was also a chain smoker as her fingers were yellow with nicotine staining. She was my science teacher for two years and my Religious Education teacher for one 9one lessonper week). She probably didn't like RE but was obliged to take a class. Her teaching RE consisted of getting us to learn and recite a gobbet of Scripture each week - and she would administer punishment with the tawse if you failed to recite the passage correctly. I recall at least one pupi being 'belted' for not knowing I Corinthians 13 - the chapter that extols 'charity' or 'love' - and being struck at the incongruity of such a punishment in such a context. however, we learned that Mrs Wilson had been in a Japanese Prisoner of War (POW) camp - and, so the story goes, had had her finger nails pulled out for some offence she gave her Japanese guards. We regarded her with greater understanding after that.

My early encounters with Scottish Nationalism

In our time in central Africa, my family were active in the Caledonian Society. and my brother and I both had kilts to wear at 'Scottish' occasions - both in the MacDonald tartan - as my paternal grandmother's name was Margaret McDonald, her family name included as the second or middle name of my father, Alexander McDonald Edmonds. My father also had a collection of records featuring both Jimmy Shand and his band and the tenor, Robert Wilson. In the year we vsiited Scotland, 1950, and I started schooling at Harris Academy in Dundee, I saw and heard my first pipe band, probably the Black Watch, the Angus regiment, and was enthralled.

When we returned to Britain in 1953, coronation year. Previously, the big news had been the removal of the Stone of Destiny from Westminster Abbey in 1950 - and my mind had been captivated by the thought of Scottish patriots (actually members of the Scottish National Convention) taking action to restore to Scotland this ancient relic (supposedly the rock that served as Jacob's pillow) that had been 'stolen' by Edward I, the Hammer of the Scots. In 1954, I attended with my parents a gathering at Greyfriars Kirkyard to hear John MacCormick, the founder of the Scottish National Convention speak in favour of a devolved Scottish Parliament. Twenty years later, one of his sons, Neil, the Regius Professor of Public Law at Edinburgh University, was a support speaker at my final election rally in Hawick Town Hall when I was SNP candidate for Roxburgh, Selkirk and Peebles in October 1974. The seat was held by the Liberal MP, David Steel, who had been head boy at George Watson's College when I was in my second year there.

My parents also took me in these years to listen to the eccentric but brave Wendy Wood, the founder and leader of the Scottish Patriots, promoting her cause at 'Speakers' Corner' near the National Art Gallery at the foot of the Mound, just off Princes Street Gardens. Moe and more, I wanted to find out about Scottish history: and of course my heroes became Sir William Wallace, the 13th century Guardian of Scotland who was hanged, drawn and quartered by Edward I, and King Robert the Bruce who won the Battle of Bannockburn.

From my earliest days, I had grown up with the notion that Robert Burns' song, Scots Wha Hae (Bruce's Address to his army at Bannockburn) was Scotand's National Anthem. When I was in Mr Telfer's music class at Watson's in about 1955, we were taught many Scottish songs. One day, we were to sing Scots Wha Hae. To Mr Telfer's amazement, I insisted on standing to sing it - the only one in my class to do so - and much to the amusement of my classmates. It was not an easy thing to do, especially as I was already very unhappy at that school and felt I didn't 'fit in.' However, although Mr Telfer told me I should sit down, he allowed me to continue to take my stance (as it were) for Scotland's anthem.

From primary school 'hell' to high school 'heaven'

As you will have read elsewhere, I was very unhappy at primary school, especially at George Watson's College. Fortunately, I was taken away from that school and went to Dalkeith High School instead. Strangely enough - in a way - in had nothing to do with me (and my unhappiness), it was all to do with my older brother, Donald, or more precisely my parents hopes for his future.

Watson's made a claim that something like 98% of their final year students who applied to university were successful. It was a very good promotional claim. What prospective customers probably did not know was that there was another 'promotion' - a set of exams by that name that determined whether or not pupils entering their final senior years would have a chance of gaining university entrance.

In those days, the 1950s/60s, you had to have a 'Higher' entrance exam pass in a language (other than English) t gain admittance to university. At the end of year 3 of senior school, all pupils sat their 'promotion' exams and Donald failed French. As a result, he failed to make it into 4 'U' - the university form - and was assigned to 4 'N' which meant he could not take a language - and therefore he was destined not to qualify for university.

My father was furious and went to see Dr Ian Macintosh, the headmaster (who was about to become headmaster of Fettes College where one of the pupils in his charge was the future PM, Tony Blair), to insist that Donald be given the chance to get to university. Dr Macintosh was not to be moved. He told my father that Donald was good at Mathematics and - with his Watsonian tie - he would have a first rate career in banking or insurance - and be much happier in life as Donald was not 'cut out' for university. 

My father's reaction as to say he that he was not prepared to pay fees to a school that was not going to afford his son the opportunity to try for university entrance. He would now withdraw his sons, both Donald and Angus, from Watson's and send them to the local state high school.

The 'old' DHS in 2007, abandoned since 2003 - a sad sight - and now demolished

And so in the autumn of 1957 I went to Dalkeith High School - although there was a rumour among my old classmates at Watson's, related to me by one of them when we met at Edinburgh University many years later, that I had been expelled from Watson's. 'We all felt bad about it, and somewhat ashamed,' I as told, 'Rattray really had it in for you - and we should have supported you instead of 'enjoying' your discomfort.' 

As for Dr Macintosh's assessment: Donald was able to take French at Dalkeith HS and passed his 'Higher' French and gained an MA and BD from Edinburgh University, a Masters from Columbia University, New York, and a Doctorate from Richmond University, Virginia.

And I escaped the tyranny of Watson's! Was DHS 'heaven'? Well, perhaps not, but all things are relative - and compared to my years at Watson's my years at Dalkeith High were just so much better.

'How the study of Latin... sort of... set me up for academic success!'

This is a classical tale of serendipity, and has little to do with declensions, the dative case, conjugating verbs, exploring Latin roots, or even reciting ditties with vague Latin connotations, like 'Amo, amas, I loved a lass...' In short, it was the result of a totally unplanned and unforeseen interaction involving three rather eccentric and out-of-the-usual characters.

As recorded elsewhere on this site, my primary school days were an unmitigated disaster, but the saving grace was that in my final year at George Watson's College in Edinburgh, I was introduced to Latin (as indeed were all pupils, regardless of their grade, in final year of Junior School). 

Our Latin master was something of a legend at Watson's, the eccentric 'Sandy Mac' (Alexander MacKenzie), who was a renowned crossword compiler for 'The Scotsman' newspaper. To me at age 11, Mr Mackenzie was a very old man. He had a square, lined face, a high brow accentuated by the fact that he combed his silver hair straight back. He was also a heavy drinker, probably an alcoholic, and a heavy smoker, because there was always the scent of whisky and tobacco about his person. He never seemed to learn any boy's name but would refer to each of us as 'Boy,' his stock-in-trade question always began, 'Well, boy' (with the 'e' vowel elongated so that the 'well' was always drawn out... 'Weeeell, boy?). 

My father, a pharmacist, had a passing interest in classical languages given that he had had to learn the meaning of pharmaceutical components. When it was clear that, as with the rest of my studies, I was not applying myself to this new academic challenge, my father arranged for the assistant Church of Scotland minister in our parish to tutor me in Latin. He was a young man, straight out of  the University of Edinburgh's New College, the faculty of divinity, and somewhat awkward and not very popular in the parish. It didn't help that he was rather short and tubby, with a very round face, piggy eyes, red shiny cheeks, with a dark, almost black, permanent '5 o'clock shadow' on his jowls; and worst of all, he suffered from halitosis and the corners of his mouth constantly showed a string or two of thick saliva appended to top and bottom lips. I think he jumped at the opportunity to tutor me, not for any extra money he might earn, but because it enabled him to 'interact' with a family in a situation, where unfortunately he was both shunned by many and regarded by most as a figure of fun.

The one-on-one tutoring forced me to start to learn my Latin declensions and conjugations and build up a reasonable vocabulary. My earnest but foul-breathed churchman-tutor used his own copy of Kennedy's Revised Latin Primer to guide me through - and eventually gifted it to me when he felt I had gained a certain competence in the language - and I have retained in my possession to this day: a kind of talisman of a book (and learning experience) that probably changed my life.

The result of the tutoring was that I began to do rather well in Latin, something that must have registered with Sandy Mac, not that he made it clear to this particular 'Boy.' However, when I came to leave Watson's at the end of that year (see From primary school 'hell' to high school 'heaven'), Mr Mackenzie sought me out and told me that he was very disappointed that I was leaving as he thought I had the 'makings' of a good Classics scholar. It was the first compliment ever paid to me by a teacher.

The final part of the 'triumvirate' (to use an expression from the one part of my 'Latin' studies that I really enjoyed, learning about ancient Roman history) was Dr George McCowan, the principal of Dalkeith High School. Dr McCowan was a much respected but greatly feared headmaster, often referred to as 'the beak.' He stood erect, with a craggy weathered face and piercing gimlet eyes, his head topped by short tufts of grey hair, not quite a 'crew cut' but very short. If one word summed up his appearance and bearing, it would be 'grim.' And the one word to describe his reputation had to be 'fearsome.'

He was an old fashioned socialist and a card carrying member of the Labour Party. In fact, in those days, you had to be Labour to gain a headship, primary of secondary, in Midlothian with its Labour controlled County Council dominated by the National Union of Mineworkers. He had a loathing for anything that smacked of privilege, including private schools, something that worked in my favour when I fronted on day one for an interview with Dr McCowan.

My mother had given me my George Watson's College report cards to present at interview, something she felt sure the headmaster would wish to peruse. I was dreading that part of the interview as my grades were awful and the teachers' comments, including those from the head teacher, Mr Rattray, were worse. Comments like, 'lazy'; 'does not apply himself'; 'insolent' did not read well and I was ashamed at the thought that the headmaster of my new school would read these appraisals.

However, when I told Dr McCowan that I had school reports from Watson's, he scowled and told me he had no interest in reading them, my relief was almost palpable. Instead, he asked me what subject I liked best. Given my recent success in Sandy Mac's class, I replied, quite truthfully, 'Latin.' As a result, Dr McCowan assigned me immediately to 1A, the top first year form. Without my Latin, I would possibly have ended up in 1C or even the lowest form, 1E, and almost certainly have been destined to leave school at 15 - perhaps to take up an apprenticeship in a kitchen, destined to be a chef (something my father had mentioned as a career unless I improved my grades).

Being assigned to 1A did not guarantee being in the top academic stream for the rest of the year: there was a sifting out process in the tests at the end of first term. Once again, the saving grace was Latin. Given that everyone else in the class was being introduced to Latin, whereas for me it was 'revision,' I topped the class - well, I was first equal with about four others - and my place in 1A was secured. Even at year's end, I was still one of the best performers and so I 'sailed' into 2A. However, in truth, I then suffered a slow decline in Latin performance to the point where, although I passed my 'Lower' Leaving Certificate or 'O' level Latin, I failed my 'Higher' Latin. However, by then my school days were over and I had qualified for university entrance.

Teachers, Tyrants, Tawse: my primary school days

My memories of teachers are varied. There were many I feared, few I liked, but most I respected - sort of!

My first 'teacher' was Mrs Tucker who ran a kindergarten at her home in Luanshya. I loved playing in the sand pit. And, although I have no actual memory of the lady herself, I 'loved' Mrs Tucker. In all probability she had little or no qualifications, but was a mother-figure.

My first year teacher was in Dundee at Harris Academy. Again, I have no recollection of her, but I do recall enjoying the singing lessons - Early One Morning, My Little Pear Tree or The King of Spain's Daughter, All Through The Night, Bonnie Dundee (of course!).

Back in Luanshya, I had a teacher I liked but again  can't recall anything else about her. I iked playing with plasticine and drinking flavoured milk - and listening to records on a wind-up, megaphoned His Master's Voice (I remember the picture of the dog listening) gramaphone.

My next teacher was Miss Palm. She seemed tall (to me) and she had straight black hair - and I didn't like her - and she didn't like me. Her report card has me as below average in Reading and generally Lazy. I recall her saying to me on one occasion that was a 'smart Alec' - and I replied that I didn't think she was very nice to speak to me like that 'cos my father was called 'Alec'! Sh'ee wrote a letter to my parents which she gave to me to give to them. Instead, I showed t to my brother, Donald, who kept it - and blackmailed me into doing all sorts of 'errands' for him - like cleaning the sweaty dust from between  his toes when we got back from school! How long this went on for,  forget, but I know that I had to tell Miss Palm day after day that I had given the letter to my parents and that they hadn't yet given me a reply for her. 

Eventually, my mother found the letter in the pocket of Donald's school shorts (we all wore a kind of khaki uniform like boy scouts). Se was very angry with us both - me because of Miss Palm's comments and Donald because he had kept the letter.  Mum told us to wait in our room until our father came home. It was an anxious wait, the expectation of a thrashing with a leather belt. We listened as our mother told father about our misdeeds. He then came into the room and closed the door. He had a large belt in his hands - the kind used to wrap around suitcases and the like. He spoke loudly to us, telling us off, before he winked and held a finger to his lips. He then whispered that we were to yell as if being beaten - and he proceeded to whack a bed with the belt. He then told us to stay in the room until our 'tears were dried' - and then come out and apologise to him and our mother. 

It was a relief to leave school in 1953 to return to the UK as I continued to have Miss Palm as my teacher - and I'm sure she would have 'poisoned' the rest of the staff against me.

The remainder of 1953 and 1954, I was in and out of many schools before spending a term or so at Ormiston Primary where I won my first playground fight (probably because as we tussled and fell, I was able to push - and keep pushing - the other boy's head into the bars of te fence that surrounded the playground - anyway, I was never challenged again there). I had a few weeks at Pathhead Primary School where I was mocked because I could not yet 'do' Long Division. Years later, when I was at Edinburgh University, one of my classmates from those days said to me, 'Ye ken, Angus, how did you get to university? Because at skill (school) you were sae donnert (so dumb).' I replied, 'Billy, it is a mystery to me, too.'

Then in September 1954, I started at George Watson's Boys College, a Merchant Company school in Edinburgh. In my interview, I met Mr Rattray, the Head of the Junior School. One question he asked me - and I failed to answer - was 'What are 6 7s? then on my first day at my new school as my class lined up for Assembly, Mr Rattray swept passed and called out, 'Edmonds, what are 6 7s?' I was taken aback and flustered and mind a blank. It was not a good beginning - and my relationship with Mr Rattray went from bad to worse.

George Watson's College

The Junior School covered the last three years of primary education and each year was divided into three classes by ability: J1, J2, J3  for that 5th year of primary; J4, J5, J6 for the next year, and finally J7, J9, J9; with J3, J6, and J9 being the class for the brightest pupils. Despite, my failure to answer Mr Rattray's Arithmetic question, I was placed in the mid-range class, J2. My class teacher was a woman. We didn't get on. Somehow  never felt I fitted in, and that was made worse in April or May 1955 as the General Election of that year approached. 

'Miss' organised a class 'mock' election. There were two candidates: one for the Conservatives and another for Labour. I had no idea about either of these parties, but it was clear that the vast majority were supporting the Conservative candidate. The Labour candidate was one of the cleverest and most able in the class, a fellow called David Tweedie. We had had very little to do with each other, but I admired his pluck in standing against the majority view and when the vote came - by raising a hand - I and one other voted for Tweedie (and therefore Labour). I sensed immediately, my teacher's approbation. I'm not blaming that prejudice for my failure - that was caused by my own laziness and my total inability to get the hang of Maths (well, Arithmetic really) - as again I was the only one who couldn't 'do' Long Division (and I again suffered the taunts and jeers of my peers until finally, but not very well, I was able to 'do' Long Division too). My nervousness about anything Arithmetical stayed with me throughout my schooling so much so that although I gained 'Higher' Mathematics (Algebra, Geometry, Trigonometry and the like) I failed my 'Lower' Arithmetic! (My Maths teacher in my final year of school told me, when the results came out, that he had never heard of such an odd result in all his years of teaching.)

I ended up bottom or next to bottom of the class and moved up year but down to J4 with class teacher, Mr Smith, a very tall, thin youngish man, always very well dressed with sharp collars and a neat conservative tie, navy or maroon mostly. He seemed rather prissy to me. I had a couple of run-ins with him that had me sent up to my nemesis, Mr Rattray for punishment. 

I continued to see quite a bit of Mr Rattray's office in the following year. I recall clearly he had a print of Bruegel's Hunters in the snow and his Census in Bethlehem on his office wall just inside the doorway. Although, given that I regarded Mr Rattray as something of a tyrant, Bruegel's Massacre of the Innocents may have been more approprate! Punishment came in two forms: a long lecture on my shortcomings followed by two or more of the strap (or tawse, but I don't recall Mr Rattray using that Scottish expression) administered with some force on my hands held together (making in harder for the hand receiving the strap to fall away with the blow). 

The saving grace was that it was a longish walk back to the classroom in the Junior School wing as Mr Rattray's office was in the main building at the front of Watson's College. It meant I had time to recover somewhat before presenting in class where all the boys (if not the teacher) would be watching to see if I had tears in my eyes or how badly my hands were shaking.

My visits to Mr Rattray's office continued in my final year of Junior School despite the fact that I quite liked my new teacher - whose name I've forgotten but it was a 'strong' sounding name, like Mr Savage or similar. He was a big man, tall and well built, with a bald pate and a trimmed short moustache. I think he must have been under instruction from Mr Rattray to send me up to see him if I 'erred' in any way.

I had a couple of friends, both like me apparently academic dullards, but nice guys. One was very small with blonde hair. He was a doctor's son but suffered very badly from asthma - and had missed many days of school. The other was a ginger haired lad, with a jovial smile. He was a member of the Magic Circle and clearly, at that time learning and performing magic tricks took precedence over his studies.

Apart from my two friends, I was probably considered a bit of an odd-ball, an outsider. I certainly never felt that I 'fitted in' at Watson's - and in some ways I didn't help my cause by taking on authority, that is in speaking back to teachers if I though they had 'wronged' me in some way. I recall one occasion that led to a visit to Mr Rattray. 

I could not fully, and without hesitation, recite a piece of poetry that had been set as homework (in my day learning passages of Scripture and poems by heart was de rigeur). It might have been King Arthur's final speech from the barge in Morte D'Arthur by Lord Tennyson - about how 'God renews the world in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world' (lines I have recited in part many times throughout my life). Anyway, I was told that the teacher was 'sick of me not doing my homework,' and I replied by saying something like, 'I did do my home work - and I can prove it!' 


I then explained that my father had listened not only to my recitation of Morte D'Arthur but to my Latin homework too - the declension of the future tense of Amare, to love, the third person plural of which is 'amabunt' (they will love). I tied to explain that my father and I thought it oddly funny as it sounded like 'I'm a munt' ('munt' being a common but also somewhat derogatory word for 'an African' - from muntu the singular of Bantu, meaning 'people' or 'humans,' and also the ethnicity and language of the native peoples of central (and indeed eastern and southern Africa). 'Enough! I'm tired of your insolence/excuses/whatever... you can go and report to Mr Rattray!'

We had three teachers other than our class teacher. One was the Assistant Music Master, a Mr Telfer, a very pleasant man (More about him in the post 'My early encounters with Scottish Nationalism'). The head of music. the Music Master was Mr Hyde, or to give him his nickname: Pongo Hyde. He was a very rotund and pompous man who fancied himself as a conductor. I only knew him when I joined the all-school Watson's College Choir as a boy soprano for a performance of Handel's Messiah, including the Hallelujah Chorus. It was planned, or so we were told, to make a record of this work, but that never materialised. Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed the rehearsals and the final performance.

The biggest bully in the whole school as the head of Physical Education, 'Butcher' Watson, a sadist who was eventually, many years later, jailed for his cruel treatment of pupils. His pet punishment was to apply the 'slipper,' a large rubber sand-shoe plimsole  to the backside of whoever was last out of the changing room - no matter how quickly we got changed for 'gym.' 

It was always a race from our classroom to the changing room to try to be first or as close to first in line. When Mr Watson opened the door we rushed in and undressed making sue that our clothes were carefully attached to the peg and our school shoes and socks neatly placed below - because 'Butcher' would equally punish any boy whose clothing was not properly stowed. My brother had been a boarder in Mr Watson's school boarding house where one of his favourite punishments was to make a boy crawl from one end of the long dining table to the other while all the boys sitting on either side of the table kicked out at the boy as he crawled passed. Any boy who was suspected of not kicking hard enough would be subjected to the same punishment.

The third teacher was the Latin master, Mr Alexander MacKenzie, or 'Sandy Mac' as he was known, an eccentric alcoholic and inveterate smoker. The smell of whisky and tobacco hung about him constantly. I have more so say about him in the post entitled, How the study of Latin... sort of... set me up for academic success!

My days at Watson's thankfully came to an end after that final year in Junior School. How this came about is in the post From primary scool 'hell' to high school 'heaven.'