The Beginning of My 60 Years (1)

What do people remember about you?

When, in February 2009, I called my Primary-1 teacher, Mrs Banks, in Buckie, to offer condolences on the death of her husband, I identified myself by my maiden name, ‘Cowie,’ the name she’d remember me by.

But there were many ‘Margaret Cowies’ in Buckie at that time. I could have any one of them.

Her response was “Hello Margaret! I do remember you!  You were adopted!”

That certainly wasn’t the response I expected from a teacher. I’d heard that often enough from classmates, who tried to use it, is a taunt, in the playground.

Mrs Banks, or “Miss Babs,” as we called her, went on to tell me that I was one of the pupils she never forgot. I’d tried hard at my lessons.  I still remember the gold stars she gave in my jotter.

“You were adopted!” is almost an accusation. At least, it sounds like one to an adoptee, more so when it’s said out of context.

So that is the beginning of my 60 years, and how it seems I’m remembered in Buckie.

All is Vanity: Ecclesiastes 1.2

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

I swore, all my life, that I would never have my hair coloured.

For many years I went to a ‘green’ hairdresser who refused to use chemicals in her salon. She simply cut hair.

But, a few years ago, I started going to another hair salon. Hair colouring was a prominent feature of the salon and strongly promoted.

I said “OK, but just do highlights. Do not touch my scalp with dye.”

Then, on an appointment a few months later, I felt the dye brush on my scalp.

I ought to have insisted that the procedure stop, but I didn’t.

The result was cheerful and fun.

Of course my hair is turning gray. That’s what I expect at my age and I never chose to colour my hair to disguise the gray.

A few months later, I went to another salon.

My vanity required its due.

The stylist did not cut my hair well. Something went wrong with the colouring process and my hair felt more like a helmet than hair. My hair was brittle, brassy and my scalp was irritated. My eyes watered with an allergic reaction to the dye.

I have not had my hair coloured since and I never will again.

My dermatologist has prescribed medication and I am impatiently waiting for a cure for my flaky scalp.

I’ll Spit at You! Or as Monty Python (The Holy Grail) would say, “I’LL BITE YOUR LEGS OFF!”

A few years ago an alleged drug addict went into a local pharmacy and demanded prescription drugs.

Ever since, a security guard has protected the pharmacy.

I don’t know what protection he can provide. He doesn’t look as if he can run; he’s not armed, unlike the equally bored looking security man who stands outside the bank.  That guard has boots and a gun.

I don’t like guns at all and I’m not advocating that the pharmacy guard should carry one.

I actually choose to walk on the other side of the street when I approach armed bank guard.

So! What deterrent can pharmacy guard offer?

Pharmacy guard SPITS!!!!!!!

I’ve seen pharmacy guard, standing outside the pharmacy, drinking deeply from a bottle of water, not just sipping, but taking a deep draught and then he rinses it round in his mouth.

THEN he projects this mouthful of water in an arc that almost reaches the storefront across the road. Perhaps that is his ambition.

I hate to see him do this.  If he has a medical condition that requires that he rinse his mouth, he ought to do so in the pharmacy bathroom.

In my native Doric dialect, the word for spitting is ‘chiffing.’

I remember my Grandad Carrit, who chewed tobacco, chiffing into the open fire. The flames turned blue and sizzled.  The fireplace tiles were tobacco stained.

I call the pharmacy security guard ‘Chiffer.’

Chiffer has nothing to do, but sit and occasionally go outside to drink water and spit that wide arc.

He makes me feel uncomfortable. The pharmacy is small enough that even with customer privacy in place, Chiffer can hear your questions about your prescribed medication.

He passes his work hours by sitting, listening and going outside to swill and chiff.

I’ve taken my prescription to another pharmacy.

I’d like to ask him why he spits in the road, but maybe he’ll spit at me!

The bank armed guard looks ‘h-armless’ in comparison!

There’ll be Sair Herts

I grew up in a fishing family in the North East of Scotland… Everyone who knows me, knows that already, I suppose.

I am very saddened by the latest tragedy in the North Sea, off the Moray Firth Coast.  A helicopter, carrying oil rig workers back to Aberdeen, from a rig, crashed into the sea. To date, no survivors have been reported.

It used to be wives waiting at the quay for news of their men lost at sea.

Now, where do the wives and families go to wait?

As Alex  Salmond said, “There’s great wealth in the North Sea, but there is a huge cost in extracting it.”