One of the happiest periods of my life was the time I spent working with ScotRail in the 1980s, when Chris Green was the General Manager. And one of my favourite groups of people to work with was the team at Motherwell; once I'd got my ear in (you could cut the Motherwell accent with a knife) I felt as if I'd come home to a bunch of competent, energetic, generous chaps who were revelling in the new atmosphere we'd created. I'll probably tell you a few Motherwell anecdotes before I'm through, but here's one to be going on with. It was related, over a pint, by one of the lads whose wife was a school-teacher.
The school had been troubled for some time by the presence of one small child, who seemed never to be washed or given clean clothes. (She also bore one of the distinguishing features of Glasgow parental ineptitude - wellies in the summer). Anyway, after various stratagems had failed, the head teacher sent the child home with a note requesting that she be washed and changed before attending school again.
The following morning, the child's mother - a Glasgow housewife so built that she had her own postcode - appeared in the head teacher's office. 'What's this note about our Doreen?' she expostulated. 'She comes to school to be learnt, not to be smelt - she's nae a fuckin' geranium!'
How I loved the Motherwell lads ...
Take care,
Valerie.
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