“He seemed like such a nice boy”. How many times was that phrase used about me? There isnae a calculator big enough. But that’s what folk thought when I went off the rails. And the photographic evidence of my primary school years would seem to indicate that I was indeed, a nice boy.
Surprisingly, colour had arrived while I was at primary school and here I am with my original nose. Before rugby, drink and scrapping arrived. Also known as the strawberry blonde years.
This next one (from the pre-colour years) was the late Mrs H’s favourite picture of me as a wean as it displays me a fraction of a second before I had some kind of henner, as the petted lip attests. You’re furr it, pal.
Lastly, proof that I wasn’t grown in an isolation tank as part of some Cold War experiment. It’s the primary school class photo from the days when childrens fashion involved whatever was left over at the church jumble. Remarkably, considering we didn’t do more than two genders back then, the very attractive girl next to me, is actually a boy. And he was a hard wee bugger as well. Not that way. This was the seventies when sex was a thing that arrived in third year at secondary.
And why aw the photies? It’s my birthday. So there.