Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2012
Friday, January 22, 2010
Friday Ten - Ten Songs or Albums That Remind Me Of Different Places and Times
Whenever I hear one of these records, I am automatically transported back in time.
1) Nessun Dorma - Luciano Pavarotti: Any time I hear the last minute or so of Nessum Dorma, I'm 10 years old and spending the summer holidays with my Granny and Grampa in Brechin. The World Cup is on the BBC every day, and the green pitches seem especially bright under the Italian floodlights. Every match is preceded and followed by the tournament's adopted theme tune, bellowed by Pavarotti. This piece of music is a whole mish-mash of different memories - watching the matches in my Granny and Grampa's house, recreating Salvatori Schillachi's bug-eyed goal celebrations and Packie Bonner's penalty saves in Brechin Public Park, and generally playing more football in a day than my legs could now manage in a month.
2) This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours - Manic Street Preachers: This was the last album I bought before moving to Edinburgh for university at 18. In the flurry of leaving drinks, packing, work and general excitement in the week leading up to the move, I barely listened to the album. But once I'd unpacked in my new home in Craiglockhart Halls of Residence and set my stereo up, this album remained in the CD player for a while afterwards. All of the tracks are now forever associated with that first week away from home and the exciting new world it presented.
3) Who Killed The Zutons? - The Zutons: One of the first albums I bought after returning from a year traveling around the world, this coincided with me buying a car and an in-car CD player and getting a job with the Oban Times. As I scooted around the town from Mrs Wife's folks' house to the office, the Liverpudlians' first album became the soundtrack to that first week as a full-time journalist.
4) A Grand Don't Come For Free - The Streets: A few months into our round the world jaunt in 2003-2004, Mrs Wife and I were skint and living hand-to-mouth in Perth, Western Australia. One of my friends took pity and sent across a pile of albums to help pass the time. Later, when we were based in Melbourne, he did the same again, just before we started traveling down Australia's east coast by bus. One of the CDs was The Streets' second album, and I would often listen to it on overnight bus journies, this curious English concept album soundtracking sleepless nights staring out into the pitch-black bush.
5) Love Is Noise - The Verve: The Verve's fourth album was released the day I set off for Norway for the first time with work. I'd decided before leaving that Love Is Noise would be my anthem for the three-day jaunt, and I listened to the track any time I had a spare five minutes. I also drove my colleagues to distraction by singing it at all other times, including making an odd hooting noise to recreate the instruments. Any time I hear it now, I'm back in Stavanger in the summer sunshine.
6) Be Here Now - Oasis: Oasis opened the concerts on their Be Here Now tour of 1997 with the song of the same name, and any time I hear it I can remember the excitement of being in the front row, my arms squeezed against the barrier to stop my ribs snapping, as the band burst out of a red phonebox and straight into this song.
7) Did You Miss Me? - The Cooper Temple Clause: When working in a canteen while at university in 2001, I would arrive at 8am on Saturday morning (not a student-friendly time of the weekend), hook up my CD player and stick on my favourite album of the time, The Cooper Temple Clause's majestic debut See This Through and Leave. The opening keyboard refrain still helps perk me up on occasion, although I don't have an endless supply of bacon rolls and Coke on hand any more.
8) Death Trip 21 - Ash: In 1999, five of us from university went to Ireland for 10 days. These were the days of portable tape players, and my friends and I swapped compilation tapes. Strangely, the only track I can remember putting on mine is Death Trip 21 by Ash, from their Nu-Clear Sounds album. Hearing it now reminds me of the train ride from Belfast to Dublin.
9) In The Meantime - Spacehog: This song reminds me of the same holiday, as it was on the jukebox in the hostel we stayed in in Dublin. We were in the Irish capital in mid-April, but it was hammering down with snow for most of our time there. So we spent a lot of time in the hostel bar, and this song got a few airings during our stay.
10) Here, There and Everywhere - The Beatles: The first dance at our wedding. Mrs Wife had this on her list of potential first dances from her teenage years, and it was an easy choice to make. It also features in the episode of Friends where Phoebe gets married, played on a steel drum, but ours was the Fabs' version.
1) Nessun Dorma - Luciano Pavarotti: Any time I hear the last minute or so of Nessum Dorma, I'm 10 years old and spending the summer holidays with my Granny and Grampa in Brechin. The World Cup is on the BBC every day, and the green pitches seem especially bright under the Italian floodlights. Every match is preceded and followed by the tournament's adopted theme tune, bellowed by Pavarotti. This piece of music is a whole mish-mash of different memories - watching the matches in my Granny and Grampa's house, recreating Salvatori Schillachi's bug-eyed goal celebrations and Packie Bonner's penalty saves in Brechin Public Park, and generally playing more football in a day than my legs could now manage in a month.
2) This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours - Manic Street Preachers: This was the last album I bought before moving to Edinburgh for university at 18. In the flurry of leaving drinks, packing, work and general excitement in the week leading up to the move, I barely listened to the album. But once I'd unpacked in my new home in Craiglockhart Halls of Residence and set my stereo up, this album remained in the CD player for a while afterwards. All of the tracks are now forever associated with that first week away from home and the exciting new world it presented.
3) Who Killed The Zutons? - The Zutons: One of the first albums I bought after returning from a year traveling around the world, this coincided with me buying a car and an in-car CD player and getting a job with the Oban Times. As I scooted around the town from Mrs Wife's folks' house to the office, the Liverpudlians' first album became the soundtrack to that first week as a full-time journalist.
4) A Grand Don't Come For Free - The Streets: A few months into our round the world jaunt in 2003-2004, Mrs Wife and I were skint and living hand-to-mouth in Perth, Western Australia. One of my friends took pity and sent across a pile of albums to help pass the time. Later, when we were based in Melbourne, he did the same again, just before we started traveling down Australia's east coast by bus. One of the CDs was The Streets' second album, and I would often listen to it on overnight bus journies, this curious English concept album soundtracking sleepless nights staring out into the pitch-black bush.
5) Love Is Noise - The Verve: The Verve's fourth album was released the day I set off for Norway for the first time with work. I'd decided before leaving that Love Is Noise would be my anthem for the three-day jaunt, and I listened to the track any time I had a spare five minutes. I also drove my colleagues to distraction by singing it at all other times, including making an odd hooting noise to recreate the instruments. Any time I hear it now, I'm back in Stavanger in the summer sunshine.
6) Be Here Now - Oasis: Oasis opened the concerts on their Be Here Now tour of 1997 with the song of the same name, and any time I hear it I can remember the excitement of being in the front row, my arms squeezed against the barrier to stop my ribs snapping, as the band burst out of a red phonebox and straight into this song.
7) Did You Miss Me? - The Cooper Temple Clause: When working in a canteen while at university in 2001, I would arrive at 8am on Saturday morning (not a student-friendly time of the weekend), hook up my CD player and stick on my favourite album of the time, The Cooper Temple Clause's majestic debut See This Through and Leave. The opening keyboard refrain still helps perk me up on occasion, although I don't have an endless supply of bacon rolls and Coke on hand any more.
8) Death Trip 21 - Ash: In 1999, five of us from university went to Ireland for 10 days. These were the days of portable tape players, and my friends and I swapped compilation tapes. Strangely, the only track I can remember putting on mine is Death Trip 21 by Ash, from their Nu-Clear Sounds album. Hearing it now reminds me of the train ride from Belfast to Dublin.
9) In The Meantime - Spacehog: This song reminds me of the same holiday, as it was on the jukebox in the hostel we stayed in in Dublin. We were in the Irish capital in mid-April, but it was hammering down with snow for most of our time there. So we spent a lot of time in the hostel bar, and this song got a few airings during our stay.
10) Here, There and Everywhere - The Beatles: The first dance at our wedding. Mrs Wife had this on her list of potential first dances from her teenage years, and it was an easy choice to make. It also features in the episode of Friends where Phoebe gets married, played on a steel drum, but ours was the Fabs' version.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
My Favourite Books: Number 1: Lanark: A Life In Four Books - Alasdair Gray
Some works of art amuse the viewer, listener or reader for a few minutes - most pop songs last barely five minutes, paintings are generally looked at then passed by.Even books can have a limited effect on the reader - I've read hundreds if not thousands of books, but I couldn't begin to recount the plotlines of most of them - once read, they're consigned to history, never to be thought of again.
But then there are works of art so sprawling and so absorbing that they command full attention and draw you into their world, demanding repeated revisits and setting a benchmark by which all others must subsequently be judged.Alasdair Gray's debut novel, Lanark, published when I was only a year old, is one such work of art.
Attempting to sum the book up concisely would, I think, prove to be impossible - it's futuristic, almost sci-fi novel, half of which is set in pre-war Glasgow and half in the mysterious town of Unthank, which may be heaven, hell or neither. It's four books in one, where none of the books makes complete sense as an individual entity - but the books are read out of chronological synch (Three-One-Two-Four). There's an epilogue four chapters before the end.
The titular character suffers from a disease called Dragonhide before he is swallowed by the Earth. And in the Epilogue, he meets the author. The novel also draws comparisons with the Bible, for reasons I won't divulge for fear of spoiling it for those of you who haven't yet read it. (And if you've not read it yet, do so now.)
I first read the book, which took more than 20 years to write, on the recommendation of my sixth year English teacher in 1997, and it formed a major part of my CSYS English dissertation that year. I've since read it once again in its entirety and dipped in and out of it on an almost constant basis over the past 10 years.
No other book has ever had the effect on me that Lanark did the first time I read it, and I'd be very surprised if another ever did. Quite simply, it's the greatest book I've ever read.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Don't Count On Me
Since our employer moved office from the outskirts of Aberdeen's city centre to bang in the middle, myself and a few of my colleagues have begun decamping to the pub on the occasional lunchtime.
This activity might normally be frowned upon, but we are only drinking Coke as we engage ourselves in games of darts to pass the mid-afternoon break.
Our new pastime has revealed two things to me: that I'm not as bad at darts as I thought I would be; and that I'm considerably worse at mental arithmetic than I thought I was.
I had a fairly comfortable relationship with maths through most of my years at school. In fact, up until my fourth year at high school, I pretty much breezed through maths without much hassle.
Laziness got the better of me during that fourth year, but I bucked up my act enough to get the top grade in that year's Standard Grade exam. And that's where the problem started.
Bouyed by false confidence after seeing the words "Mathematics: 1" on my certificate, I decided to enrol on the Higher mathematic course. Which I quickly found was Higher in all respects.
To this day, I have no idea what possible use vectors, algorithms and Calculus can serve in the real world. Arithmetic and fractions I can understand. But proper mathematics makes as much sense to me as Arabic.
Unsurprisingly, I failed Higher maths. And in the intervening 11 years, I've never once been inclined to renew my relationship with the subject.
Apart from when subtracting 54 from 501 in a busy harbour pub.
This activity might normally be frowned upon, but we are only drinking Coke as we engage ourselves in games of darts to pass the mid-afternoon break.
Our new pastime has revealed two things to me: that I'm not as bad at darts as I thought I would be; and that I'm considerably worse at mental arithmetic than I thought I was.
I had a fairly comfortable relationship with maths through most of my years at school. In fact, up until my fourth year at high school, I pretty much breezed through maths without much hassle.
Laziness got the better of me during that fourth year, but I bucked up my act enough to get the top grade in that year's Standard Grade exam. And that's where the problem started.
Bouyed by false confidence after seeing the words "Mathematics: 1" on my certificate, I decided to enrol on the Higher mathematic course. Which I quickly found was Higher in all respects.
To this day, I have no idea what possible use vectors, algorithms and Calculus can serve in the real world. Arithmetic and fractions I can understand. But proper mathematics makes as much sense to me as Arabic.
Unsurprisingly, I failed Higher maths. And in the intervening 11 years, I've never once been inclined to renew my relationship with the subject.
Apart from when subtracting 54 from 501 in a busy harbour pub.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Another Sports Day
Writing about sports day yesterday got me thinking again about the sports days I took part in as a boy.
As I mentioned previously, I was, for a few of my years, a half-decent sprinter, winning the McGregor Cup as Senior Boys' 100m champion in both of my final two years at school.
Unfortunately, this success didn't translate to other events, and I was never crowned overall champion, although Baby Brother achieved that feat a few years later.
My inability to convert my sprinting prowess to other events reached its peak when I was around 14. At the end of each school sports day, the final event was always the boys' open 1500m race, an event in which every boy in the school was entitled to compete, regardless of age.
Entering the event as a fresh-faced 14-year-old, I had no grasp of the concept of pacing myself. If I did something, I did it flat out, as befitted a sprinter.
Lining up alongside my fellow male pupils, I was one of the younger runners. But, as the gun signalled the start of the race, I flew out in front of the pack, determined to rattle around the track as quickly as possible.
For the watching crowd, comprising every other pupil in the school, all of the teachers and a few bored parents, it must have been some sight. By the end of the first lap, I was 200 metres in front of my nearest challenger, a senior pupil four years older and considerably fitter than I was.
As I crossed the line at the end of the first of my three laps, I received some sterling advice from those congregated at the line:
"Slow down!"
"You're running too fast!"
"Move into the inside lane!"
True enough, by the midway point of the second lap, my lungs and legs were burning, and the runners behind me were closing in fast. By the end of that lap I was second.
Midway through the third lap, I thought I was going to die, my legs barely willing to carry me any further, my heart dancing to its own private hardcore rave compilation and my lungs wondering what they'd done to deserve the punishment I was inflicting upon them.
Finally, desperately, I stumbled over the finish line in seventh place, staggered to a nearby grassy bank and collapsed.
The world was spinning and I could see spots flashing wildly in front of my eyes. It took me a good 10 minutes to summon the energy to stand up.
The lesson I've learned from that race?
If nature had intended me to travel 1500 metres in one go, he'd have given me wheels instead of legs.
As I mentioned previously, I was, for a few of my years, a half-decent sprinter, winning the McGregor Cup as Senior Boys' 100m champion in both of my final two years at school.
Unfortunately, this success didn't translate to other events, and I was never crowned overall champion, although Baby Brother achieved that feat a few years later.
My inability to convert my sprinting prowess to other events reached its peak when I was around 14. At the end of each school sports day, the final event was always the boys' open 1500m race, an event in which every boy in the school was entitled to compete, regardless of age.
Entering the event as a fresh-faced 14-year-old, I had no grasp of the concept of pacing myself. If I did something, I did it flat out, as befitted a sprinter.
Lining up alongside my fellow male pupils, I was one of the younger runners. But, as the gun signalled the start of the race, I flew out in front of the pack, determined to rattle around the track as quickly as possible.
For the watching crowd, comprising every other pupil in the school, all of the teachers and a few bored parents, it must have been some sight. By the end of the first lap, I was 200 metres in front of my nearest challenger, a senior pupil four years older and considerably fitter than I was.
As I crossed the line at the end of the first of my three laps, I received some sterling advice from those congregated at the line:
"Slow down!"
"You're running too fast!"
"Move into the inside lane!"
True enough, by the midway point of the second lap, my lungs and legs were burning, and the runners behind me were closing in fast. By the end of that lap I was second.
Midway through the third lap, I thought I was going to die, my legs barely willing to carry me any further, my heart dancing to its own private hardcore rave compilation and my lungs wondering what they'd done to deserve the punishment I was inflicting upon them.
Finally, desperately, I stumbled over the finish line in seventh place, staggered to a nearby grassy bank and collapsed.
The world was spinning and I could see spots flashing wildly in front of my eyes. It took me a good 10 minutes to summon the energy to stand up.
The lesson I've learned from that race?
If nature had intended me to travel 1500 metres in one go, he'd have given me wheels instead of legs.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Sports Day
Today, as I made my way to the train station, there was a chill in the air, but it was a chill that suggested that another day of warm sunshine beckoned.
Mornings like that, when the smell of cut grass hangs in air alongside the morning mist, always remind of sports day at high school.
I'm not sure if this situation was replicated at other schools, but at the high school I attended, there were two sports days - an individual sports day and a team sports day.
At the first, the individual sports day, each competitor was out for personal glory, taking part in as many events as he or she saw fit, the person with the most points at the end of the day winning the individual sports trophy for that year.
A week later, the official school sports took place, with the school's three houses competing against each other for the collective bragging rights. And the events couldn't be rigged - no single competitor was allowed to compete in more than two individual events plus the relay race.
In those days, I was a fairly formidable sprinter, at least within the context of our school. And from first year onwards, it became apparent that taking part in the individual sports day was a great way of missing a day's lessons.
I competed every year from first until sixth year, even in the years when Standard Grades and Highers were doing their damndest to suck the will to live from all who cowered in their shadows.
It was a fairly easy decision - a day in a stuffy classroom with algebra, iambic pentameter and the farming habits of Amazon indians, or a day spent running around in the sun.
Those who participated in the individual sports day fell broadly into three camps:
A) The Competitors. These were the individuals who saw, in sports day, a chance to bag some glory through lifting a silver trophy at that year's prize-giving ceremony, their parents beaming happily from the audience. Their ambition would know no bounds - warm-up exercises, knee braces and isotonic sports drinks were all employed as they attempted to get their grubby paws on a trophy.
B) The Skivers: These people were at sports day simply as a way of avoiding the book-based horror within the school's walls. What they lacked in physical prowess and athletic endeavour, they made up for in journies to the sweetie machines or escape bids to smoke a fly fag around the back of the science block.
C) The Complete Bampots: Even at the age of 13, there are some people you can pick out as being a bit special. They may not have a brain cell to call their own, but when they're 6'2" of rippling muscle before most of their classmates' balls have dropped, you know it's best not to point out their shortcomings.
I was somewhere between groups A and B: I turned up half expecting to do well, then remembered that I can't run for more than 200 metres without coughing up semi-vital internal organs.
But, from the age of about 15, I was almost unbeatable over 100m, when limiting the competition solely to other pupils at my school. I say almost, because there is always one....
....Jimmy (I've changed his name to avoid any future repercussions) was a machine. He didn't so much fit into group C as define it. There are people you describe as solid who don't deserve the accolade. Jimmy wasn't one of them.
I'd encountered him on a running track once before, during a relay race. My team was doing well, and I was leading from the front on the final leg.
Then I heard Jimmy.
That's right, I heard him coming.
Snorting like a charging bull, he was closing the gap on me, his arms and legs seemingly replaced by steam engine pistons.
And, in a blur of thunderous gristle, he was past me and through the line.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jimmy, not renowned for his ability to work with calculus, is now in the army. Never mind tanks and guns - just set Jimmy at those Iraqi insurgents. He'll take down the whole of Basra in a day.
Mornings like that, when the smell of cut grass hangs in air alongside the morning mist, always remind of sports day at high school.
I'm not sure if this situation was replicated at other schools, but at the high school I attended, there were two sports days - an individual sports day and a team sports day.
At the first, the individual sports day, each competitor was out for personal glory, taking part in as many events as he or she saw fit, the person with the most points at the end of the day winning the individual sports trophy for that year.
A week later, the official school sports took place, with the school's three houses competing against each other for the collective bragging rights. And the events couldn't be rigged - no single competitor was allowed to compete in more than two individual events plus the relay race.
In those days, I was a fairly formidable sprinter, at least within the context of our school. And from first year onwards, it became apparent that taking part in the individual sports day was a great way of missing a day's lessons.
I competed every year from first until sixth year, even in the years when Standard Grades and Highers were doing their damndest to suck the will to live from all who cowered in their shadows.
It was a fairly easy decision - a day in a stuffy classroom with algebra, iambic pentameter and the farming habits of Amazon indians, or a day spent running around in the sun.
Those who participated in the individual sports day fell broadly into three camps:
A) The Competitors. These were the individuals who saw, in sports day, a chance to bag some glory through lifting a silver trophy at that year's prize-giving ceremony, their parents beaming happily from the audience. Their ambition would know no bounds - warm-up exercises, knee braces and isotonic sports drinks were all employed as they attempted to get their grubby paws on a trophy.
B) The Skivers: These people were at sports day simply as a way of avoiding the book-based horror within the school's walls. What they lacked in physical prowess and athletic endeavour, they made up for in journies to the sweetie machines or escape bids to smoke a fly fag around the back of the science block.
C) The Complete Bampots: Even at the age of 13, there are some people you can pick out as being a bit special. They may not have a brain cell to call their own, but when they're 6'2" of rippling muscle before most of their classmates' balls have dropped, you know it's best not to point out their shortcomings.
I was somewhere between groups A and B: I turned up half expecting to do well, then remembered that I can't run for more than 200 metres without coughing up semi-vital internal organs.
But, from the age of about 15, I was almost unbeatable over 100m, when limiting the competition solely to other pupils at my school. I say almost, because there is always one....
....Jimmy (I've changed his name to avoid any future repercussions) was a machine. He didn't so much fit into group C as define it. There are people you describe as solid who don't deserve the accolade. Jimmy wasn't one of them.
I'd encountered him on a running track once before, during a relay race. My team was doing well, and I was leading from the front on the final leg.
Then I heard Jimmy.
That's right, I heard him coming.
Snorting like a charging bull, he was closing the gap on me, his arms and legs seemingly replaced by steam engine pistons.
And, in a blur of thunderous gristle, he was past me and through the line.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jimmy, not renowned for his ability to work with calculus, is now in the army. Never mind tanks and guns - just set Jimmy at those Iraqi insurgents. He'll take down the whole of Basra in a day.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Back To School
Tish over at The Kat House tagged me for the Blue Tea Meme. Here are the rules:
“Devise a list of 5-10 courses you would take to fix your life. It’s more fun to be in classes with friends, so include one class from the person who tagged you that you’d also like to take. Tag five.”
Here’s my course schedule:
Car Maintenance - I'll join Tish and her tagger Andrew in the Car Maintenance course. Like Tish, the extent of my mechanical knowledge extends as far as testing levels, changing bulbs, replacing tyres and washing. And I don't do any of those as often as I should. So a course in maintaining my own car would save me a lot of money that I'd otherwise spend in garages.
Guitar - I can play guitar, but very badly. I'm very jealous of those people who can pick up an instrument and rattle off half a dozen tunes flawlessly without having to think too much about it. But maybe the fact that I already think I can play guitar would make me too much of an awkward student.
Singing - If I'm going to take the time to learn to play guitar properly, I should really refine my singing voice so that it is actually a voice worth hearing. Again, my deluded belief that I can actually already sing might be an insurmountable hurdle.
English Literature - When I applied to university aged 18, the two options that most appealed were Journalism and English Literature. Although I chose Journalism back then, and have no regrets about having done so, I'd still like to study English Literature at some point in my life. There are too many great books I haven't read yet, and studying them might give me the impetus to start.
French - I studied German at High School and can still hold a basic conversation. But I'd like to be able to speak another language, so I'll go with French - it would make popping across the Channel a bit less taxing.
I'm supposed to tag five people for this meme, but instead of going down that route, how about I just throw it open to anyone who fancies shot. Just remember to link back here if you do decide to go back to school.
“Devise a list of 5-10 courses you would take to fix your life. It’s more fun to be in classes with friends, so include one class from the person who tagged you that you’d also like to take. Tag five.”
Here’s my course schedule:
Car Maintenance - I'll join Tish and her tagger Andrew in the Car Maintenance course. Like Tish, the extent of my mechanical knowledge extends as far as testing levels, changing bulbs, replacing tyres and washing. And I don't do any of those as often as I should. So a course in maintaining my own car would save me a lot of money that I'd otherwise spend in garages.
Guitar - I can play guitar, but very badly. I'm very jealous of those people who can pick up an instrument and rattle off half a dozen tunes flawlessly without having to think too much about it. But maybe the fact that I already think I can play guitar would make me too much of an awkward student.
Singing - If I'm going to take the time to learn to play guitar properly, I should really refine my singing voice so that it is actually a voice worth hearing. Again, my deluded belief that I can actually already sing might be an insurmountable hurdle.
English Literature - When I applied to university aged 18, the two options that most appealed were Journalism and English Literature. Although I chose Journalism back then, and have no regrets about having done so, I'd still like to study English Literature at some point in my life. There are too many great books I haven't read yet, and studying them might give me the impetus to start.
French - I studied German at High School and can still hold a basic conversation. But I'd like to be able to speak another language, so I'll go with French - it would make popping across the Channel a bit less taxing.
I'm supposed to tag five people for this meme, but instead of going down that route, how about I just throw it open to anyone who fancies shot. Just remember to link back here if you do decide to go back to school.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Picture This
Just to prove that the words that appear on this humble blog aren't the overworkings of a head full of nonsense, here is the photographic evidence that I attended the primary school reunion last weekend.Thank you to Sho, who risked the sack to send me the photograph instead of having me pay for it. For those of you who want to play "Where's Wally/Waldo?", I am NOT wearing a fluorescent shell suit in this picture. Which I'm sure will come as a great disappointment to many of you.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Back To School
Until very recently, I believed that I was still too young to be invited to a school reunion. After all, it's only been nine years since I left secondary school, and only five since I graduated from university.
But despite still being a metaphorical spring chicken, I was recently invited to attend a reunion of all those fortunate past pupils of Tarfside Primary School who are still alive.
So, despite both suffering from chronic hangovers, Baby Brother and I headed back to the school for the first time in many years on Saturday.
Actually, that's a lie. Mither dropped us off at the school on Saturday. Which is pretty lame - a combined age of 50 and we're still getting driven to school by our mum.
It was an unusual gathering. Though many had travelled considerable distances to attend the event, many hadn't made it for one reason or another. So we were left with a strange spectrum of ages, ranging from the school's current pupils, all aged between five and twelve years, up to a handful of alumni now within grasping distance of their 80th birthdays.
(What is the correct collective name for a group of elderly folk? A wrinkle? A moan? A zimmer?)
The present, but soon to be retired, teacher at the school has retained self-made yearbooks for each of her years at the helm of the school, and it was equally intriguing and mortifying to flick through the pages chronicling my brief period as a pupil.
Parents in the early 1990s must have cruel, colourblind or both. Amongst the natty costumes I was sporting in the photos were a faded Rangers shellsuit, the jacket bleached a pastel shade closer to lilac than to the more proper Royal Blue; a Rangers strip (notice a trend here?) which I wore in its entirety, the shorts hiked up to somewhere around my armpits; and a pair of Bermuda-patterned Speedo swimming trunks, which at least provided some distraction from my lurid white pigeon chest.
Thankfully, this catalogue of what not to wear was shared equally amongst those of us who attended school around the same time, so the burden of shame wasn't mine to bear alone.
Even more toe-curling were the videos of school plays showing on a constant loop in a back room, showcasing to full effect the incendiary thespian skills of Scottish primary school children, starring yours truly affecting some god-awful English accent for recurring roles as a butler.
All in all, it was a great weekend, offering the opportunity to catch up with old friends who have been strangers for too long, drink to excess in the unique surroundings of Tarfside Masonic Hall and spend Sunday eating freshly barbecued hamburgers whilst playing football on the school playing field for the first time in nigh-on 15 years.
Needless to say, I had lost none of the magic.....
But despite still being a metaphorical spring chicken, I was recently invited to attend a reunion of all those fortunate past pupils of Tarfside Primary School who are still alive.
So, despite both suffering from chronic hangovers, Baby Brother and I headed back to the school for the first time in many years on Saturday.
Actually, that's a lie. Mither dropped us off at the school on Saturday. Which is pretty lame - a combined age of 50 and we're still getting driven to school by our mum.
It was an unusual gathering. Though many had travelled considerable distances to attend the event, many hadn't made it for one reason or another. So we were left with a strange spectrum of ages, ranging from the school's current pupils, all aged between five and twelve years, up to a handful of alumni now within grasping distance of their 80th birthdays.
(What is the correct collective name for a group of elderly folk? A wrinkle? A moan? A zimmer?)
The present, but soon to be retired, teacher at the school has retained self-made yearbooks for each of her years at the helm of the school, and it was equally intriguing and mortifying to flick through the pages chronicling my brief period as a pupil.
Parents in the early 1990s must have cruel, colourblind or both. Amongst the natty costumes I was sporting in the photos were a faded Rangers shellsuit, the jacket bleached a pastel shade closer to lilac than to the more proper Royal Blue; a Rangers strip (notice a trend here?) which I wore in its entirety, the shorts hiked up to somewhere around my armpits; and a pair of Bermuda-patterned Speedo swimming trunks, which at least provided some distraction from my lurid white pigeon chest.
Thankfully, this catalogue of what not to wear was shared equally amongst those of us who attended school around the same time, so the burden of shame wasn't mine to bear alone.
Even more toe-curling were the videos of school plays showing on a constant loop in a back room, showcasing to full effect the incendiary thespian skills of Scottish primary school children, starring yours truly affecting some god-awful English accent for recurring roles as a butler.
All in all, it was a great weekend, offering the opportunity to catch up with old friends who have been strangers for too long, drink to excess in the unique surroundings of Tarfside Masonic Hall and spend Sunday eating freshly barbecued hamburgers whilst playing football on the school playing field for the first time in nigh-on 15 years.
Needless to say, I had lost none of the magic.....
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