My dad was an expert at The Sales. Still is. Our childhood was fuelled on quality clothing and footwear cannily procured at a 50% or greater markdown by the big fella. It's almost like he had a super-power that drew him to class product at maximum di
scount: SaleMan; like Superman but with shopping. This trait of bargain hunting I inherited from my father. I'm Indian and Scottish: both halves of my heritage encourage pecuniary discipline. It was a trait I thought I would carry with me for life, a trait I thought I could depend on until I was old. But somehow, somewhere along the line, my super-power has failed me. It's as if age is my kryptonite. I go to the sales, I look around, I try to buy things, but to no avail. I can think of nothing I'd rather do than shop, just not at sale time. Last year I purchased three things in the sale – three pairs of socks. This year I have purchased two things in the sales – a pair of socks and a scarf. At this rate, next year I'll be down to a single item. These days, as middle age beckons with a shout rather than a whisper, I have two wardrobes full of clothes and have been guilty of more fashion mistakes than the entire cast of every series of Big Brother. I feel I would rather pay a little more for something that is right, rather than something that is cheap. And rarely do both go hand in hand.
Salt-beef sarnies are my sacred cowA hot salt-beef sandwich. With mustard on rye bread. We have a lot to thank the Jews for but for my money top of the list must be the salt-beef sandwich. (Funnily enough food features quite heavily in my personal list of "Things That We Should Thank The Jews For"; which also includes Jackie Mason and the Yiddish language.) Now, strictly speaking, Sikhs, like Hindus are meant to hold the cow as sacred, and should, by all counts, eschew the beef and settle for a lamb or chicken sandwich. I, however, would offer the salt-beef sandwich as an almost religious experience. The warm, flaky beef with the merest hint of delicious smoky fat; the spicy, nutty rye bread and the gentle warmth of the mustard elevate this sandwich to a whole new level of gastronomic excellence. Every mouthful and explosion of flavour and texture. And having eaten it, I have a great deal more respect for the cow.
I'll never forget the Highlander who gave everything and more to help save my lifeOne of the upsides of being a newspaper columnist is the fact that people from your past read you and then take the time to get in touch. One such person was Calum Murray who dropped me an e-mail last week. When I knew him he was Charge Nurse Calum Murray, the good-looking and laconic man from Lewis; he was my first experience of a Hie'lander.
It was 1983. I was a 14-year-old who had woken one morning not able to walk properly. At first I found this hilarious: I was staggering about like a drunkard but without the expense of a single malt. I was rushed to hospital, the Royal Infirmary, where I was told I might never walk again. That's where the fun and games began. I was soon transferred to the Southern General, which has a specialist neurosurgery ward. The first few days were nothing more than a dwam.
It transpired that I had a virus, similar to meningitis but much more virulent. It rose gradually, inexorably up my spine, and as it moved, the paralysis took hold further and further up my body. It was a waiting game. The doctors had no idea whether they could treat me, and I sensed the entire world around me, my parents, the specialist, my family, all collectively hold their breath. I was pumped full of steroids and developed a predilection for smoky bacon crisps and Chinese food. Steroids do that to you. Luckily the virus was caught in the nick of time. The virus was hours away from debilitating my brain.
The virus relented as the steroids took hold. My wee mum was amazing. My dad was a rock. And my brothers were just the best brothers you could hope for in a situation like that. For me the situation was relatively straightforward: I was at the epicentre of it, it was happening to me. Strangely, I felt in control. Obviously I was upset (as was the SFA) that I would never now be able to guide Scotland to the final of the World Cup in Mexico in 1986, having scored the winning goal and subsequently held aloft the World Cup (renaming it the Jock Stein Cup). Or joined the legendary Fin Calder in the back row as we won the Calcutta Cup on our way to our "third in a row" Grand Slam (after which England retired altogether from World Rugby because we were just too good). But it was much worse for my family and friends who stood by and watched.
And then there were folk like Calum Murray. Calum was one of those medical staff, like so many, for whom just doing the job is not enough. He did more; so much more. Even though I was only young, I remember Calum staying beyond the end of his shift to look after me, to console me as I lay in bed, inconsolable. Such was his dedication and devotion that he volunteered himself to escort me from the Southern General to a rehabilitation hospital in Edinburgh, all the while saying that he would happier if I had stayed at the Southern General.
It was a time in my life that defined me as I am now, for better and for worse. If you ask my mum, being ill saved my life: she reckons I was heading off into oblivion, a difficult child who had become a difficult adolescent, who would become a difficult adult. I would struggle not to agree. Being so close to death and having a life-changing experience can enable you to appreciate life more fully. And I hope I have. On the other hand, perhaps I got away with more than I should have thereafter, my parents just grateful I was around and walking. That was the last time I saw Calum; the winter of 1983 in the back of an ambulance heading for Morningside. Yet for the past 25 years I have never forgotten his kindness, never forgotten his care. I was lucky to have met such people in my life. And I just wanted to say thanks to him, and those like him.
Amen to that, say IOverheard conversation: In the supermarket by the pickles and condiments, a lady on her mobile phone: "…but don't let that stop you coming on Sunday… we're Christian, but we're not THAT Christian."
The full article contains 1186 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
