My earliest 'memory'

My earliest recollection - I can scarcely call it a memory as it is very faint in my mind's eye - dates back to when I was but 2 years, three months, and about eleven days old! I had been alive for 831 days. Wow! So exact!

However, I can calculate this fact because on 11 April 1947 King George VI and Queen Elizabeth and the two royal princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret, visited Livingstone in what was then The Protectorate of Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia) and my birthday falls on the last day of the year - and I was born on 31 December 1944.

Livingstone 1947, I am sitting beside my Dad, Alex (pr Alec) Edmonds, with my baby sister, Catriona, after she survived cerebral malaria, one of the youngest children ever to do so, with another child to the left, and a puppy Rhodesian Ridgeback, called Roddy, a most faithful dog, devoted to me and my brother, Donald, and sister, Catriona.

I vaguely recall standing beside the road when the Royal family passed by in a large black car - and according to my mother, she got me to salute and the King gave me a smile and a wave. I do not recollect that but I do recall something of that big car driving slowly passed. No doubt we were standing as a family on what became known as The Royal Mile, a road that had been resurfaced for the occasion.

The Royal family visited to see the Victoria Falls during the Royal Visit to Southern Africa during the terrible British winter of 1946/47.

Royal Family at Victoria Falls 1947

It was a long tour in an effort to shore up the pro-British South African government of Jan Smits - but all in vain, the Africaner, Nationalist Party, came to power in 1948, despite the 'success' of the Royal Visit.

The Royals had arrived at the Zambezi Boat Club by launch from the town of Victoria Falls on the Southern Rhodesian side (where they stayed at the Falls Hotel for that Easter weekend) accompanied by the state barge of Barotseland Paramount Chief, Litunga Imwiko. They were met by the Governor of Northern Rhodesia, Sir John Waddington, and driven to the township in the governor's car. The local paper,The Livingtone Mail, wrote that it was 'the most important day in the history of the town,' although in fact, the Royals only stayed in Livingstone, which was a rather basic and unattractive township, compared with Victoria Falls, for the afternoon.

The sense of excitement - from my parents - and the cheering of those standing along the route, no doubt made an impression on me, despite my early years, must have heightened my senses and created a 'memory' for me.

My father, Alexander (Alex prn 'Alec') McDonald Edmonds

My father was born in Edinburgh, in Gorgie or Dalry near the Tynecastle (Heart of Midlothian FC aka 'Hearts') Football stadium on 16 October 1910. His father, Robert, joined the Royal Scots Greys and fought at Gallipoli and then on the Western Front along with his five brothers, all surviving the great slaughter of WWI, except that his brother George was gassed and died in 1921 of respiratory disease. My great-uncle George worked in a garage in Dalkeith - which as still in operation on the A68 near the Dalkeith High School that I attended for my high school years. As George did not actually die during the, he was not accorded 'war death' status and his widow did not receive a pension. So much for 'a land fit for heroes'!

My grandfather was a cabinet maker, but he had been absent during the war years and work was not easy to come-by afterwards, even before the Great Depression. The family circumstances were poor. My father was brought up on porridge fro breakfast and usually a kipper (smoked herring - which wrre cheap) - or part thereof for his 'tea' (evening meal). He had an older brother by two years, John, and a younger brother, Robert, again by about two years. From an early age, during WWI, my father worked on a milk float (a horse drawn wagon, pulled by a Clydesdale horse operated by the Fountainbridge St Cuthbert's Dairy - quite close to his family home, a tenement in Gorgie Road. In the winter his hands would be frozen and he suffered from chilblains on his toes and heels of his feet - but the small pay he received went straight to his mother for 'housekeeping.'

My father recalls the outbreak of the war, although he was only four at the time, as the first bombing raid of the entire war was an attack on the Forth Railway Bridge and the associated naval bases. The sound could be heard in Edinburgh - and of course the whole thing was a huge sensation and talking point.

When his father returned from the war, he liked to have a boiled egg for breakfast, occasionally sharing the top of the egg with one of his sons. When times were really tough, the family might only be able to afford one kipper - for th father. On one occasion, my Dad asked as his father sat down to eat the kipper, 'Where's my kipper?' only to be told -  'You've had yours - you got the  smell of it!' And he was probably lucky not to get what was called 'a thick ear' from a hard slap across his face for daring to ask!

All three boys were bright at school but had to leave as soon as they were fourteen to earn money for the family - even although as boy labour they would be paid in pennies! John was apprenticed to painter and decorator and that became his trade - and he eventually ran his own business and lived in a typical Edinburgh bungalow in the Edinburgh suburb of Portobello for the rest of his life, with his wife, Ina, and two sons, Robert and Ian (Scots for John). My father was taken by his mother to get a job at a warehouse to start a 'career' as a warehouse-man (he would have been a 'odd-job' runner no doubt as a 'lad') - this in 1924 and there was a queue of other lads hoping to get the one position on offer. They boys were all handed a list of items with prices and amounts. The first boy to calculate the total price - and of course all correct - would get the position. It was a race! My father didn't win. So an angry mother dragged him away. Howevrer, as luck would have it, as they passed a Boots The Chemist shop, the manager was just posting a notice in the window that said 'Delivery lad wanted! Must be able to ride a bike.' Without a moment's hesitation, my father's mother took him into the shop and speaking to the manager said, 'Excuse me, sir, Here's you delivery lad. Alexander here can ride a bike. He won't let you down.'

Alex got the job and joined Boots. He was a delivery lad for a year or so, then trained to be a dispenser, before qualifying through night school at the Herriot Watt Institute in Edinburgh (now the Herriot Watt University) as a pharmacist (entitled to place the letters 'MPS' - member of The Pharmaceutical Society - after his name). He often said to me, 'You know, if I'd been a bit quicker at adding up these figures, I could well have become a warehouseman, eventually rising to be a warehouse manager!' Instead, he became a respected professional in the health industry working in both hospitals in Africa and chemist shops, including his own business, in Scotland - and strangely, when he died at only 56 years of age, he was again working as the pharmacist manager of a Boots chemist shop - Musselburgh, perhaps about 10 miles from where he began his work career with the same firm, 42 years earlier.

A toxic mixture

I buy and read The Times newspaper each day (for its news cover, articles, and because I can usually manage the cryptic crossword in Times 2, but not the official back-page Times Crossword! I usually manage to 'get one free' via a Waitrose deal - puchase goods, including the 'free' coffee valued at £2.60 and the newspaper £2.40, totalling £10 and showing my 'Waitrose Card' and I get teh coffee and the newspaper free of charge. It ain't difficult to purchase goods to the value of £5 to make up the £10.

Anyway, on Tuesday 17 October, 2017, there was an article by journalist Hugo Rifkind, entitled, 'Politcs and friendship are a toxic mixture.' In the article, he referred to the friendship between right-wing Tory MP, Jacob Rees-Mogg (whose father was once a well-known editor of The Times) , and a Labour MP, Jess Phillips. Rees-Mogg is a conservative Catholic who utterly opposes abortion, even in cases of rape. Phillips is a supporter of abortion as a woman;s right to choose what happens to her body.

Hugo Rifkind had this to say about their friendship:

'On one level, I approve of all this camaraderie. On another though, it makes no sense to me.

Say you're Rees-Mogg. You oppose abortion because of your faith, which means you think people who facilitate abortion are destined for a bad time in the hereafter. Right? So, are you really going to have no personal misgivings - ''dislike'' seems a tame word here - about somebody who, by own interpretation, advocate something that will send people to hell? Does that make sense to you?'

Well, of course, 'it doesn't,' to answer Rikind's rhetorical question.

Hugo Rifkind's example, however, struck a chord with me as  I have had difficulties for a long time accepting 'as normal' or indeed 'acceptable' the notion that most Christians, and certainly conservative Christian of all denominations accept or go along with as part of their belief: the notion that their loving God has destined that all non-believers (in Christ as Saviour and Lord) will end up in the fires of hell.

I have wondered about neighbours and colleagues, who clearly hold to the orthodox teachings or doctrines of their various Christian churches, including an eternity of heaven for them and hell for the rest. It could be said that they live in hope that the rest will be 'converted' and 'saved' but not only is that unlikely statistically or in any other way - I have been in the company of those Christians who believe that the numbers are limited anyway (to about 400,000 - but then the same type of person who can work that kind of figure out can also tell when the world was created, apparently in 4004 BCE) or that those to be 'saved' is predestined (Calvinists) - so fat chance the vast majority of people ever getting into heaven!

Many people who do not go to church or accept the 'teachings' of the church, but may have some thought that there is or could be a 'divine presence' - God, if you like - are willing to support, with cash or in some other way, the work of say, The Salvation Army. After all, it does a lot of good work with the homeless and other needy persons. Yet, the Sally Army believes in hell and fully accepts that those who are non-believers will spend eternity in the fires of hell.

Now, if someone entertained thoughts that their neighbours - and indeed friends - along with millions of others, were destined to spend endless days and nights in abject and total suffering, afflicted by excruciating pain, with no let up, no relief... and that such horrors were justified, we would have legitimate concern. We would wonder what kind of mind they possessed: were they insane, perhaps criminally insane? Would it be wise to keep their company? Should we inform the authorities?

Thinking that people will be roasted in fire - without even the possibility of death ending their suffering - is a very dark thought. Even if Christians 'temper' the fire image by saying things like, 'the suffering will be more like a total sense of depression...hopelessness...despair...emptiness...etc.' the picture is very dark. They seem to accept that - for ever, for eternity - the non-believer, regardless of what good they have done or evil avoided and/or condemned in their earthly life-time, will suffer excruciating mental and emotional anguish - what we would call, 'a living hell.'

We would be wary of people holding such dark thoughts. We might well fear them. We might well think that it would be better to have nothing whatsoever to do with them. We certainly wouldn't like them to look after our children. Yet we do. We seem to accept their notions and allow or children to attend their youth groups and some even send their children to their schools. How odd!

All this is at the individual level - and we are tolerant. We accept that there should be 'freedom of religion' and we support 'free speech.' To a point. As a society, we will seek to restrict teachings in a mosque, say, that is supporting Islamic terrorism. We want the social media companies to monitor and suppress, when necessary, the on-line outpourings of hate associated with neo-Nazis and Islamic terrorists; and, indeed we are prepared to ban their organisations, as the British Government has done, quite rightly, this year with National Action.

Yet, when we look at the beliefs of conservative Christians, we discover that everyone (who has lived is alive, or will live in the future), unless they are 'saved' through faith in Jesus Christ, is not just 'bad' (in the Salvation Army's words, 'totally depraved', but also to 'exposed to the wrath of God' and to receive 'endless punishment.' See the following statement of doctrine from the UK's Salavation Army web site:

We believe that our first parents were created in a state of innocency, but by their disobedience they lost their purity and happiness, and that in consequence of their fall all men have become sinners, totally depraved, and as such are justly exposed to the wrath of God.

We believe that continuance in a state of salvation depends upon continued obedient faith in Christ.

We believe in the immortality of the soul; in the resurrection of the body; in the general judgment at the end of the world; in the eternal happiness of the righteous; and in the endless punishment of the wicked. (https://www.salvationarmy.org.uk/salvation-army-doctrines)

The Catholic Church beliefs as stated in its Catechism of Catholic Beliefs, says:

Each man receives his eternal retribution in his immortal soul at the very moment of his death, in a particular judgment that refers his life to Christ: either entrance into the blessedness of heaven—through a purification or immediately—or immediate and everlasting damnation. (CCC 1022)

So, whether Catholic or evangelical Protestant (Sally Army), orthodox Christian belief is much the same when it comes to what will happen to non-believers at or after death - and it ain't pretty!

Of course, these are only beliefs, some might say - and none of it has direct reference to life as we know it - life here on earth. Well, maybe. However, if this is the case, it is due almost entirely to the secularisation of society. Thankfully, we have rid ourselves (almost) of church rule and influence (well, certainly not quite).

[While we are shocked and outraged by some of the wicked and cruel acts of fundamentalist Islamic insurgents, like those of ISIS, and of fundamentalist Islamic states like the Kingdom of Arabia, where limbs are mutilated and people beheaded or stoned to death, our history, even into so-called 'modern' times saw people imprisoned, tortured, or put to death for what were 'religious' offences - in Scotland,

Even into the 20th century, the state was prepared to prosecute those who commit 'religious' offences, such as blasphemy - by which we mean not only using profane language but including denial of religious beliefs, such as the Holy Spirit. It was only in 2008 that the Government repealed blasphemy as an offence in England and Wales - and blasphemy laws are still extant in Scotland and Northern Ireland. And that is no coincidence. Until recently Scotland was deeply divided along religious lines, especially in Glasgow, and Northern Ireland remains a 'troubled' community with Catholic and Protestant intolerance never far below the surface.]

While we - as a society (including many voices in the various churches) - condemn the extremist views of fundamentalists in Islam, we do not apply the same standard of vigilance against fundamentalism in Christianity. In fact, our church leaders seem afraid to tackle the subject. They tolerate in their midst, in their councils, in their pulpits, conservative voices - voices that clearly denounce the very same liberal and tolerant views held by the more liberal leaders.

Many years ago now, in 1963, a Church of England bishop, the Bishop of Woolwich, John A T Robinson, wrote a book entitled, Honest To God, challenging traditional theology. One of his critics, an orthodox Anglican, the writer C S Lewis, on being asked what he thought of Honest To God, replied , 'I prefer being honest to Honest To God.'

It was a 'clever' answer - a smart answer, but it was actually a phoney answer. I say this because church leaders, and well educated and informed Christians know how nonsensical their fundamentalist, Bible-Believing, conservative colleagues are, and should be more honest. They know about modern biblical criticism that has shown how the books of the Bible were written and when they were written - and then selected by meetings of the church - to be regarded as 'sacred' texts, the so-called Word of God. They know that the concepts and constructs of Christianity were formed by or drew on ancient thought and custom - and therefore are not veritable truth. They know, in the words of the old song,That it ain't necessarily so!

Yet, they allow in their midst, indeed they seem give respect to - and thereby legitimise - the nonsense of the conservative Christian position. It is as if  The Royal Society, that fellowship of the world's most eminent scientists, were to accept as one of their own someone who adheres to the notions of so-called Creation Science or even that the Earth is flat.

So, why do they put up with this ludicrous situation? Is it because they hold that it is a matter of faith, and therefore beyond critical reasoning? Is it because they base their notions on the same 'authority' = the collection of ancient writings in what is called The Bible to which they, like their conservative colleagues, ascribe supernatural importance as 'the Word of God.' Or is it, in their own practical way, they fear the 'thin edge of the wedge'? That questioning any results in questioning all? After all, where do you draw the line?

A history of Coates

From Wordpress (https://coatesvillage.wordpress.com/a-brief-history-of-coates/) 

People have probably lived in the vicinity of Coates for thousands of years. There is plenty of evidence of early earthworks, not least there are the remains of an Iron Age fort at Trewsbury. Equally the southern border of the parish is the Fosse Way, a Roman road which ran (and still runs, largely) from Bath to the north east of Nuneaton.

The village lies very close to the source of the river Thames, and the outline of a Roman building is clearly visible in a field directly south of the Tunnel House Pub, just a mile from the village. Little is known about this building, but there has been speculation that it is a temple to the goddess Isis, as the source of the great river may have once started there.

The first mention of the parish is, unsurprisingly, in the Domesday Book – the limits of the parish were largely the same then as they are now. The name “Cotes” was derived from the sheep pens that littered the area, just as was the word “Cotswold”, which means “region of the sheep pens.” Oakley Wood possibly derives its name from Achelie, an ancient term meaning a clearing in the trees.

In 1066 the village consisted of three manor houses, named Radulph, Cockerel and possibly Oakley, as with the wood. Historical details of Coates are few and far between, based largely on the occasional spat in the courts. In 1221, for example, the then-priest of the parish, named Robert, slew William de Boses at the occasion of an Ale drinking. As nobody in the village helped to capture the renegade priest, the entire village was fined and the priest was outlawed.

Records suggest that the church was first constructed in the 14th Century. It may seem strange that the Church is so far outside the village, but at the time all or part of Coates lay between the Church and what is now Hailey Woods. No-one is sure why the main part of the village was re-sited where it stands today. One theory is that it was due to the Great Plague; a more mundane explanation perhaps, is that houses built up around the newer manors over time, and fell down in the older areas.

In the late 15th Century, the three manors were brought together by Sir William Nottingham, and in 1600 the village was officially renamed from Cotes to Coates. The remaining part of one manor is now known as Church Farm (reputedly with a tunnel from the stables to the church, but this remains undiscovered), and another is now Setts House.

The oldest part of the village is the end wall of church farm; the oldest house(s) still standing are Coates House, which was originally a number of cottages known as Setts Cottages. Architecturally these were based on the Craft Movement, as were Setts House and Fosse Hill. Setts House was actually built – or at least paid for – by a Captain Stanwick, who didn’t want to have to drive his sister to church!

Life in the village changed dramatically with the arrival of the canal joining the Severn to the Thames. Taverns were constructed for the benefit of the canal workers, one at each end of the tunnel – these are the Daneway Inn in Sapperton, and the aforementioned Tunnel House, which was built in 1789. It was was gutted by fire in 1952, and later renovated, and it was extended in 2004. The Thames Head, situated out on the Tetbury road, is an old coaching inn.

In 1848, 22-year old Thomas Gibbs came to Coates as Curator of the church. He later built the school, largely at his own expense, and lived to a ripe old 94 years. His body is buried in the church yard. The school, probably built originally on the site of a workhouse, first opened its doors in 1849; it was closed in 1987 and sold by the Bathurst estate as a private house. The clock maintenance passed to the parish council, and thereupon to the current owner who still has to ensure the time is set correctly!

Later in the 19th Century, a new manor house was built; later still saw the arrival of a further large residence, which was brought down stone by stone from Hams Hall, near Coleshill in Warwickshire, in 1921. During the war a German plane – a Junkers bomber – crashed into the tennis courts at the rear of Bledisloe, having jettisoned its bombs along the Setts. Coates resident Albert Wheatley was put on guard of the crashed aircraft, and the two German airmen were buried in the churchyard. In 1950 the house was acquired by the Royal Agricultural College and renamed Bledisloe Lodge.

There was also, until 19-something, a licensed establishment in the village called The Shepherds Arms. Coates has never had its own pub; The Shepherds Arms was licensed to dispense beer, and while the men of the village were not legally allowed to drink on the premises, they used to sit on the opposite wall to do so! The last licencee of the Arms was the Wright family, before that Douglas Holder and before that Georgina Laurence, known to all as Georgie, and her assistant Laura. The post office, opposite what is now May Tree Close, was run by a Mary Ann Roberts in 1901, then her son Tom Roberts, and then by his daughter, Nancy. Mary Ann was married to George Roberts, who had a brother Robert Roberts. Their father was Richard Giles Roberts who was a master carpenter for Lord Bathhurst.

The Village Hall was originally built as a mens’ reading room in 1905. Today it hosts a gardening club, and “good companions” whist drives are held regularly. The church itself has been restored twice, once in 1861 and again in 1947. The footpath across to Tarlton was the route for burials of Tarlton residents, as they had no church yard. Incidentally, the cart was until recently still in the church! Inside the church there is an account of a Coates man, Bernard Vann, who was awarded the Victoria Cross during the First World War.

Coates has remained roughly the same size for the last hew hundred years, with population numbering around 400. 12 council houses were built between the wars, and 18 after the last war. Recent expansions include the creation of Quaker Row (in the gardens of the existing terraced houses) and May Tree Close in the early 90’s.

COATES COINCIDENCES

We purchased a semi-detached cottage in Coates near Cirencester on 4th July 2014. We liked the property because it had good sized rooms and big windows letting in loads of light - and because we could see how it could be improved and extended; but most of all because it had an airiness in and around it. Unlike so many other properties we had visited, this one was surrounded by a sense of open space - not hemmed in like so many British houses. It was also very quiet - but the village was clearly lived in (unlike others we had visited - Cotswold hamlets with pretty or rustic stone house but the places looked 'dead' - most properties owned as country cottages and obviously rarely visited by their probable London owners). 

When we looked at a property map of Coates, we saw that a house just up the road from 'ours' was named 'Sarona' and another house we thought was called 'Penney's House' - and thought what a coincidence given our investment company in Australia was called 'Sarhona Pty Ltd' - an amalgam of our daughters names (Sarah and Rhona) and because of our granddaughter, Pennie. We also noticed that the 'big house' of the village (well, set off in its own grounds just on the southern edge of the village) was called 'Bledisloe' - the same name as the famous cup fought out each year by the Australian and New Zealand rugby union teams. So many connections - it just had to be 'meant' we thought.

But we only knew half of it!

The 'big wig' of the area and the major landowner around Coates is Earl Bathurst - and yes, one of his predecessors was the Colonial Secretary and the first inland city in Australia was named in his honour - so another Ozzie connection. Bledisloe House was built (or rebuilt from a house in Derbyshire) by a member of the Bathurst family who as Lord Bledisloe was the Governor- General of New Zealand who donated the eponymous cup referred to above. 

The property was acquired in 1950 by the Royal Agricultural College (now University) at Cirencester and renamed as Bledisloe Lodge, it served as the residential hall of the Royal Agricultural College (until the 1960s). 

In the parish church yard is the grave of  Derrick Francis Douglas Christopherson, a former warden of Bledisloe Lodge.  Christopherson was born in the year Emmanuel UQ was founded (1911) and he died prematurely in 1959 at the age of only 48 years. Each time I take a walk that passes through the churchyard, I stop and pay my respects. 

The village clock which hangs off the wall of the former National School building (established in 1848) and featured in a BBC 2 TV program, The Restorers, in 2017.  Jan and I both appear in the episode on Coates. The clock was first installed in 1911 (that year again!) to celebrate the coronation of King George V. 

Then we discovered only after a year or so that teh curreent Master of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, Dame Fiona Reynolds (elected as Master in 2012) is a neighbour in Glebe House, only 300 yards down the road from us where she lives (when not in Cambridge) with her husband, Bob x, with whom we have had some dealings. As another Dame - Dame Edna Everage would say, ‘Spooky!’

UNO and other fun and games with the grandkids

It is 2017: Pennie is 6 and Liam is 4. It is February: they have spent a week with Jan and me in Coates while their parents packed up and moved from Ham back to Richmond. I wonder how much Pennie and Liam will remember of this in years to come?

There were many games of UNO  - and, wondrously, Liam and Pennie won most of them! (Although Liam kept forgetting to call 'UNO' when he only had that one card left.) 


There were the usual requests for us to buy a ''mazagine.' Liam was delighted to get a magazine/mazagine with some Star Wars stickers including many Dark Fader (sic) figures - with which he then 'decorated' four sheets of paper - and very neatly too.

'Dark Fader' aka Darth Vader

But Pennie why, oh why, did every activity, no matter how much fun, no matter how many laughs, no matter how many words of praise, always end in tears? Nothing like a good sob to round things off?

Still, you were always good fun too, with your cheeky smile and your giggles... and your very good understanding of what was amusing. The there was your reading - wow! could you read!

'Grandma. grandpa. I've read 70 pages this morning - see! (and the pages read would be shown, held between your index finger and thumb. Or a question asked,'How many pages are there from 17 to 89 - I read that much. See!'




Then there were the endless 'eps' on NETFLIX. 'Not the noos, grandpa! It's boring! We want to watch Horrid Henry!'

A special outing that went very well was to the pictures/cinema - and both behaved impeccably when we all watched 'SING' together at the Vue in Stroud - and then had lunch at Jolly Nice on the way back 'home' (to Coates): sausage baps finished with ice-cream cones (both choosing pink 'strawberry' when I thought that at least one would follow my choice and go with 'shocklate?). Yum! 

Destined to be in Gloster?

Now in my seventies, having lived in Africa, Scotland, the Midlands of England, and Australia, I am a resident of Gloucestershire, living in a village near Cirencester.

The older spelling of Gloucester was Gloster. Way back when I was five, there was a hit song, with words including:

Put another nickel in

In the nickelodeon

All I want is having you

And music, music, music

I'd do anything for you
Anything you'd want me to
All I want is kissin' you
And music, music, music

Closer, my dear , come closer

The nicest part of any melody

Is when you're dancing close to me

So, put another nickel in
In the nickelodeon
All I want is lovin' you
And music, music, music

[Instrumental Interlude]

Put another nickel in
In the nickelodeon
All I want is having you
And music, music, music

I'd do anything for you
Anything you'd want me to
All I want is kissin' you
And music, music, music

Closer, my dear, come closer
The nicest part of any melody
Is when you're dancing close to me

So, put another nickel in

In the nickelodeon

All I want is lovin' you

And music, music, music

However, my elder brother, Donald, thought that 'Closer, my dear, come closer, was 'Gloster, O Clement Gloster' and so he taught us to sing it - and it became our musical item. I recall singing it for Uncle David and our cousins, Muriel, Jean, 'Little' Edna (to differentiate her from Auntie Edna, her mother) and Doreen, in the flat we lived in the High Street, Dundee, in 1950 or 1951 before we returned to Africa.

Ad now, all these years later, I live in Gloustershire just half an hour away from its capital, Gloucester, or Gloster, as it used to be written. 

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.