When I saw the photo again today, it occurred to me that when I go completely bald the scars will be visible. I can’t remember all the times I had to have stitches in my head when I was that wee laddie, but here are a couple of notable occasions.
Some workers from the Council came to the house to paint the rone-pipes. One of them propped his ladder against the wall you see in the photo. Then up he went with his paint-pot and brush. And up went the bold Brendan after him. But I didn’t get very far before I toppled backwards and cracked my head on the brick path below. Stitches. Lots of stitches.
I was playing in the swing-park at the end of our street when it was invaded by a gang of big laddies from the Ferry. They were amassing there because they had heard that a rival gang from the neighbouring village of Dalmeny was on its way. Some of them decided to take a shot on the swings while they waited. I was watching one of them swing higher and higher when I noticed what looked like a coin on the ground below the swing. Just as I darted for the coin, the swing came zooming down and a pair of tackety boots connected with my skull. Stitches. Multi-stitches.
My poor oul’ mother. What she had to put up with.