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Messages, Weegie Style

It’s funny the memories that stay with you. All the small insignificant episodes and experiences that stick to you from childhood like well chewed spitballs on the classroom ceiling. They’re there, you can see them but there’s no way of getting up there to clean them out. Some memories are disturbing, things you’d rather forget but for the most part, this week I have been remembering lots of odd wee things from my childhood. We’ve been clearing our the house getting it ready to sell and my mind has obviously doing a similar spring clean with its recollections.

tenementI’ve written about my childhood before. I was brought up in Queenslie, part of the Greater Area of Easterhouse. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? It wasn’t. Anyhoo, we lived on the top floor of a modern tenement, built in the 1950s. We had a verandah so we could sit out and enjoy the wonderful Glasgow weather, with great views across the east end of the city. When my mum wanted me to get her some messages from the shop – doing the messages is what Weegies called grocery shopping – she would shout down from the verandah to where I’d be playing in the street below. If there were several things to buy she’d make a list and the money would be wrapped up in this list, or in a piece of torn Mothers’ Pride plain loaf waxed paper if only one or two things were needed. Part of me wanted to catch the money to show off my skills. But the bigger part of me knew how painful it was to catch several tightly wrapped coins thrown from the top floor of a tenement. The money would usually hit the pavement and oftentimes the parcel would explode and I’d have to chase down the elusive pennies. There was usually an extra 2d to buy a chocolate biscuit or 3d to buy some crisps.

There were two ways to get to the local shops. You could walk along the streets, past the primary school and round the corner at the bus terminus. Or you could go on a back court safari. The back courts were partially grassed, covered in dog poop and subdivided by black railings, bent back in places to allow us kids freedom – you couldn’t fence a Weegie in. Paths had been worn through by the sandshoed feet of hundreds of Queenslie weans using the back courts to shave off at least 30 seconds from their journeys.

I dream about Queenslie a lot. So much so that I can’t remember how much of what I remembered actually happened or not. I think there were four shops with pensioners’ flats above. There was a newsagents with Twinkle comics, two counters and Fry’s Five Boys chocolate; a dairy with a cold meat counter, a box of lucky potato sweeties and mood rings; a small baker’s with doughnuts and paris buns. I have images of a larger grocery store, of an off license and a pizzeria, but I’m pretty sure these are just figments.

I dream so vividly and return to my alternative dream world so often I have difficulty in distinguishing between these dreams and reality. I suppose this might be why I’m writing this down now, to try to anchor reality and prevent it getting lost in the confusion of unreliable memory. I also find it fascinating that in less than 50 years the world has changed so much and my daughter’s experiences of childhood are so different from mine.

I hope they are better.


Writer, photographer, creative fantasist.

8 thoughts on “Messages, Weegie Style

  1. Nettie – It is amazing isn’t it how some memories from childhood just stay there. You may love ’em, you may cringe, but they’re there. You’ve done such an elegant job of conveying what messaging was like – thanks for sharing that.

  2. Nettie – It is amazing isn’t it how some memories from childhood just stay there. You may love ’em, you may cringe, but they’re there. You’ve done such an elegant job of conveying what messaging was like – thanks for sharing that.

  3. I have also been dreaming about my childhood home, as it was in the late 60s and mid 70s, which is odd, because my parents still live there and it’s changed a lot.
    We must be getting middle-aged, that time to review what’s gone by and what’s yet to come.

  4. Love it. I was brought up in Dalmuir, part of Clydebank these days. The place was different, a whole 20 miles (if that) away, but the culture was exactly the same.

    When I got married the first time, my wife and I were given a council house at 23 Auchingill Road, Easterhouse. Despite it being well run down, there was still a good deal of goodwill between the people; folks talked to each other, and helped each other out. I well remember a guy who lived across the street from us coming to my door about 10pm one night, carrying a young lad about 15 or 16 by the scruff of the neck, his toes barely touching the ground. Before I had the chance to say anything, he said “I caught this wee c*** breaking into your car and trying to steal your toolbox. He’ll no dae it again coz if he diz he’ll get his bawz ripped aff, but ye’ll need tae get yir lock fixed”. There was no more to be said really, and the wee chap hanging by the scruff of his neck could only stammer that he was, apparently, sorry. I’d never spoken to the bloke across the road, though I had seen him around, but there was a relationship between us now, and of course I felt obliged to hand him in six Tennants the following day.

    I live in Australia these days, but there’s no real society here, I barely know the neighbours on each side of us.

    1. Hi, Jim and thanks for stopping by. What a great story. I know what you mean about neighbours. We’re the same here. Sometimes I think it’s for the best, mind you…

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