Taken from the steeple of Kirkintilloch Parish Church - later renamed St. Mary’s, this 1914 photo looks down on the old wooden bascule bridge over the Forth and Clyde Canal.

Whenever a boat had to pass through, the bridge was raised by means of a wheel turned by hand and this was done by the bridge-keeper. I remember when it was replaced by steel swing bridge in 1933. 

In the years after the Second World War there was a huge increase in the number of vehicles on the road, and the opening and closing of the bridge for canal traffic created serious hold-ups. In 1967 a proper road bridge was built on an embankment, but this completely closed the canal at that point, resulting in a great deal of rubbish gathering in the water on both sides.

Many folk campaigned to have the whole length of the canal re-opened, and this happy result came about in 2001.

There is now a Marina not far from the bridge and Kirkintilloch is claiming to be “The Canal Capital of Scotland.”

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My mind has been taking me back eighty years or more to the days when the best present I could have was a jotter. Yes, just a plain jotter. 

I would get a pencil and a rubber and settle down to write or draw.
For quite a while I would sit and look at the blank page. There was something fascinating about the whiteness and in a strange way, though I was keen to begin, I was also reluctant to spoil the clean page.

And once I had overcome this reluctance to start, how did I make use of my jotter?

Writing stories which I never got round to finish, poems with rather dodgy rhymes, jokes taken from my comic “The Rainbow” and I remember trying to write a play. My inspiration usually came from Children's Hour on the wireless.

On one occasion I produced a magazine. I can’t remember what title I gave it, but I think it had half-a-dozen pages. Written in pencil, there were family news items, puzzles, drawings, jokes and poems. I tried to copy real magazines by varying the size of my script for the different items and using big lettering for the titles of each feature. 

My father was always very proud of what we children did and it was probably he who suggested that my completed work of art should be passed round relatives.

And so the magazine did the rounds and eventually was returned to me. But what a shock I had!

Someone had obviously been reading it at the breakfast table for
a runny egg had been dripped on to the front page. I know who the culprits were but I’m not telling.

 And that’s why I produced just one edition my lovely magazine.

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This unusual painting
Girl at a Window
is by Marie Therese Heumesser

It is followed by a Detail

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During my time as a club musician, I met some very talented amateurs. It was rare for singers to have their music with them, and I had to follow them as best I could. Since they usually didn’t know in which key their song was set, I would ask them to start on their own, and after a couple of bars I was able to join in with a suitable accompaniment.

I must mention that my knowledge of “pop” goes no further forward than 1960, and at times I was probably the only person in the club who didn’t know the number being sung. Fortunately the drummer knew his stuff, and was a big help to me.

Of course all the professional artistes had band scores, most of them very well written, and playing them was a challenge I really enjoyed.

For a while I played occasionally for cabaret at a golf club, and it was there I met one of their members - a very amusing amateur comedian. He reminded me of the American George Burns, and the audience loved his casual, relaxed style. I was so keen on his act, that I arranged for him to appear in the club where I was resident. And I was completely shocked! He was a flop! The poor man, away from his usual group of friends, had a real struggle to raise a laugh. 

That was the last time I ever recommended an entertainer.

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