NOT everyone loves their old school. Through the years I have met some folk for whom school was at best a means to an end; their fulfilment came later in life. For others it was not a pleasant experience for any variety of reasons.
And I have met a handful who have a strong and visceral reaction of hatred for their old place of education. Their schooldays are shrouded in an oft-unexplained darkness, events still causing hurt and upset years later.
Somewhat guiltily, I have
to confess to having absolutely loved my school days at St Aloysius in Glasgow. I was back at Hill Street on Monday doing a wee bit of work and more than a wee bit of reminiscing. So much has changed in the intervening 23 years. There's wee weans kicking aboot the place in the kindergarden; new buildings have sprung up combining concrete and glass to juxtapose dramatically with the august red sandstone of the main school building; and the smelly yet always alluring ootside cludgies are no more, replaced by state-of-the-lavatory toilet systems.
The entire place has been spruced up and looks cleaner, fresher and more welcoming than ever. And whilst one might expect maelstroms of modernity since I was a teenager, there are quite a few components that have remained constant, like some of my old teachers. I chatted to Phil Crampsey, my second-year maths teacher and First XV rugby coach (a man I am still unable to call anything other than Sir or Mr Crampsey) and he reminded me of the time, as a 16-year-old playing for an injury-depleted First XV team, that I found myself at loose-head scrumming down against the 18-year-old Scottish schools' tight head, a bearded schoolboy who was nicknamed Jabba.
Suffice to say that as I was carried off bowed but not broken, Mr Crampsey patted my arm and commended me for lasting into the second half. As we talked, I wondered whether my memories were accurate reflections of those halcyon days or whether I had air-brushed out the misfortunes, the misdemeanours and the miseries.
The longer and harder I thought about it, the more I realised that, like any child, I had experienced ups and downs; seen engaging pedagogues and those less interested in furthering and stretching the minds of their pupils; had good terms and bad terms.
But when viewed as a whole, over the course of an unbroken decade from 1977, I had an extraordinarily happy schooling.
There seemed to be a genuine sense of family in my school, generations had passed through the hallowed halls, cousins kicked about on the concrete playgrounds. And while one can get waylaid into thinking that great schools are about great facilities and great buildings, ultimately what makes a great school is great teachers, teachers who inspire and enlighten.
That's one thing that hasn't changed since I was a lad. One thing that has changed is the once-great Scottish education system. If we are not careful, educational experiences like mine will soon be rare, perhaps even a thing of the past. Surely a fine schooling is the least we can expect for the future adults of Scotland.
That's breakfast news to meFinally I have had it explained to me why breakfast is such a capital idea. I never had much appetite of a morning and so reckoned the skipping of breakfast was a meal less to worry about, a boon in the fight to stay the size of just a single (as opposed to a double) garage. However (and this is the science bit) if you eschew breakfast you lull your body into starvation mode, slowing down your metabolism. The upshot, or more accurately downshot, is that when you do finally stuff yer face with dim sum at lunchtime your body stores the food as fat, thinking that you might be going without a meal again soon. So there you have it: officially eating breakfast will make you slimmer. Who knew?
Diversity's okay for a dance troupe, but not for meOn Monday, I found myself in Cambridge at an awards ceremony for the publishing industry. I had been nominated for an award which in and of itself should be a matter of great joy. Much as no-one works in order to garner awards (rather choosing to garner professional respect and appreciation), one should be humble and grateful for any degree of recognition by one's peers. But here's the great big caveat. The award I was nominated for was in the Diversity category. It's one of the words of the moment, Diversity – it was, after all the name of the dance troupe that won Britain's Got Talent. To be honest, I wasn't altogether sure what I might be awarded this prize for. Undoubtedly the award was hugely well intentioned, an attempt to encourage a wider range of backgrounds into what is still regarded as a white, middle-class industry. But I wasn't comfortable about my ethnicity being at the heart of people's perceptions. I would like to be judged against all other writers, all other broadcasters. If I am not good enough to make those shortlists then maybe I shouldn't make any shortlist at all. I understand completely that these sort of initiatives are intended to encourage and foster change. And hopefully they can. Then again, maybe my grapes are a wee bit sour. Maybe I'd be much clearer about the award had I won? Who knows?
Fat becomes a feminine issueMy cousin was over from Malaysia last week. Dr Kooks, as she is affectionately known, has something of the air of a royal doctor about her. She glides around the family dispensing loving, if a little intimate, medical advice. Her first words to me after five years apart was a comment on my weight, the suggestion that I might lose 10kg and a more detailed appraisal of my blood pressure and cholesterol levels. (And there was me wondering how the family was back in Seremban). Obviously she is very well-intentioned and her medical assessment is clearly an indication of her familial love for her wee cousin. It's just that I don't know anyone who reacts well to being called fat.
The full article contains 1063 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
