Happy days in primary school at Crieff in the 1960s as milk monitor, a most responsible role; goodness knows if there was such a thing as a school dinner then, for I never had one, being a lucky child, running home every lunchtime with pals to the caravan site where our Mums had grub waiting to be wolfed before we stormed back up the hill again, over the bridge and into Commissioner Street, to shout, chase, race, fall in and fall out in the playground pretending to build a gang hut in the shelter. We were bursting with energy, stuffed with scotch broth, mince, tatties and doughballs, steam pudding, swiss roll and custard. Memories too of colourful teachers who smiled, made us laugh, taught us to read and write, memorise and chant rhymes and songs, some Scots, some Australian, always unforgettable. The way you think Scotland’s meant to be, for everyone. The way it could be.