Deputy editor Bob Burgess gets a blast from the past from Lanzarote
Last week’s revelation that I had to duck flying chalk and, more importantly, flying wooden blackboard dusters during my days at Galashiels Academy prompted an electronic response from a former classmate. Ronn Ballantyne stayed at the top of Meigle Street and then at the foot of Tweed Road, but now has his abode in the warmer climes of Lanzarote where he plies his trade as a photographer. He married a Selkirk lass, Lesley Harkness, and for a while operated from a shop at the foot of Selkirk’s Tower Street which he also ran as one of the earliest video-hire shops in the Borders.
But I digress. Ronn is a keen user of the social networking site Facebook. I’m just beginning to find my way around this website wonder, so, although I’ve spotted his postings, I’ve never got round to responding to any of them. My apologies, Ronn, and I’ll have a bash this weekend.
Sorry, I’ve digressed again. Ronn spotted last week’s Grey Matter on The Southern’s website and memories of those far-off classroom days came flying back – just like those dusters. He said that although he was far away, his memory was as good as ever. Would that be a photographic memory ? I’m afraid it didn’t paint me in a very good light. Well it would take a lot of paint and a damn good artist to do that.
Ronn recalled: “If anyone can remember flying chalk and dusters, it is without a doubt yours truly. The main reason for this, of course, is I was your classmate and you seemed to attract more of the same than most. I, of course, used to sit next to you. The physics teacher [name withheld in the spirit of Leveson – Bob B] seemed to be the most prolific bowler, almost knocking Kenny Laurie’s eye out on one occasion. Never used to do us much harm, if I recall, actually gave us a load of laughs.”
It certainly did, but I’m afraid that although I passed by physics prelim, my inability to take v = u + at v2 = u2 + 2as s = ut + 1/2 at 2 average velocity = (v + u)/2 , seriously in the classoom meant a miserable – a very miserable – failure in the O-Level exam proper. In fact I walked out after Q2.
Ronn and I and a few others ended our secondary scholastic time in the summer of 1967.
We didn’t go quietly, as Ronn recalls: “A discreet veil will be drawn over the incident of the free-flying fire hose which somehow found its way in through a class window on leaving day. For now that is.”
Forever Ronn, please, forever. But it was funny.
Police were not involved in our end-of-school antics, which gives me a link to something serious. On Sunday, Scotland’s eight local police forces pounded the beat for the last time to be replaced next day by a single force to be known as Police Scotland.
Now that may not seem much of a big deal – but it is. There have been plenty of assurances from those on high that policing will remain local, that we will see little change and any change we do see will only be for the good.
Over the years, from the 1800s, policing has become less and less local. Once towns and counties had their own chief constables. Town, village and hamlet had their own police station or police house. The bobby knew the public and the public knew the bobby. Do you know yours? Does he know you (for the right reason, of course)?
This sweeping change must be closely watched.