My secondary school was a Victorian pile: it didn’t do “O” levels or “Highers”, the pupils were thugs; and so were most of the teachers. It was like Barlinnie but you got home at night. Leaving opportunities consisted of: building sites, the pits or borstal. None of these were options for me. In three years in the woodwork class I had produced sawdust, pits terrified me and I was too much of a fearty to get into any real trouble.
Opening the envelope I let out a roar and ran up and down my tiny hall; I had been accepted and was desperate to tell my parents. My father was a Presbyterian Stalinist who “left his smile at the gate” according to my mother. He didn’t believe in displaying emotion, listening to other people’s opinions, providing for his family or “tick”, higher purchase.
'Dad I’ve been accepted for university.'
'That’s a miracle,' he said dourly, 'you spent your child hood reading coamics.'
There was a reason for this; because of his aversion to “tick” we didn’t have a television. Instead, I retreated to my arctic bedroom and read vociferously. Firstly there were comics, including the wonderful Classics Illustrated, potted versions of classic books. Then I graduated to novels, often from the local library, reading everything from Anna Sewell to James Joyce. These massive reading sessions engendered a life long passion for literature. In a strange way my father’s obdurate behaviour enabled my education.
I attended university obtained a degree and was then offered a position in the university helping students achieve their dreams. This celebration is not about me “Self praise is no praise”. It’s about education in all its forms. It is about doing a job I love and making a difference.