Liberton School, 1959. All dressed up and ready for the trip to Burns’ Cottage
Our long term memories are of necessity patchy and selective, a medley of isolated moments in time, but nonetheless vivid for all that.
For instance, I can clearly remember one morning in the late summer of 1952 when I was three, nearly four years old. I was sitting on the linoleum underneath the kitchen table. My mother was doing the washing at the double sink at the window, putting the clothes through the wringer before carrying them down three flights of stairs to hang out in the back green. Our top floor flat in Newington had a spectacular view north towards Arthur’s Seat and Edinburgh Castle, but it also had its disadvantages. As my mother worked, I was moaning that I was bored. I had no-one to play with, my big sister having recently started school. “I wish I was old enough to go to school,” I declared longingly. And, of course, a year later I got my wish.