School Trips

My great-nephew and his schoolmates are off at Blairvadach Outdoor Centre this week and, I'll bet, despite the anxious moments experienced by their parents, they are having a ball.

I've done more school trips in my time than is probably healthy for anyone.

It's a great experience for kids. Can they get on with other people? Can they throw themselves in to sporting activities? Can they make their own bed? New young teachers are flung in there too like so many sacrificial lambs but somehow (probably because of the staunch common sense of the staff of the Outdoor Centres) they all survive. On Friday, everybody comes home, the young people are reunited with their families, talk all weekend about how great it was - and their teachers buy a bottle of gin at the Sainsbury local on the way home, order in pizza and sleep for 10 hours.

My pal C and I ran an annual school trip for our combined 'regi' classes. This was way back in the early 70s. We were scheme kids working in a scheme school and we had no fear. If you had any fear, you wouldn't last a day in that school. Nobody stopped us. We signed the kids up, got some money from the school fund, hired a bus and off we went to Ayr.

The only glitch was when the bus driver watched our wee darlings get on the bus and asked us:

 - Ur youz two aff yer heids?

Well, of course we were. You wouldn't do this otherwise.

The 'weans', all aged about 12, had brought packed lunches, which they ate before we had even passed the Glasgow boundary. 

 [Years later, I realised the boundary was a big milestone for a lot of Glasgow kids. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed nursery teacher told me about the time she too took her weans down the coast and heard one small child say to the rest of the bus:

- Look at they big dugs!!!

They were sheep but, bless her, the teacher decided not to spoil the moment.]

C and I led the weans to the seafront at Ayr and wandered about a bit but what we really wanted was a fag - and that was out of the question because we couldn't shake off our escort of weans.

We led them to a wee set of 'shows'. The usual dodgems, something that could pass for a rifle range and so on. And off they went. C and I headed for the cafe. It took about 20 minutes before a wee gaggle of lassies found us. They were very upset because they had spotted a girl in very tight jeans who had clearly started her period and didn't realise it. They didn't know her but hey, solidarity, lassies! Off we went to find her and our wee girls broke the bad news. Amazingly, we were carrying a first aid kit including sanitary towels and that saved the day. There may well be women in their 50s in Glasgow who remember this incident.

But the best was still to come. As the time approached for us to get back on the bus (the weans had run out of money), we started to walk along the seafront to pass the time.

Suddenly, we heard a voice behind us and there was one of our weans:

- Miss!

- What? we asked.

- Can ah take this hame?

We turned to see one of our weans holding up a dead seagull by its wing tips.

- No, said C firmly, You can not take that home!

We carried on walking, still trailed by the boy and his seagull.

- How no?

- Cos I said so! said C. Now put it down!

He did but with every sign of reluctance. He continued to follow us, muttering angrily:

- See that school. I hate that fekn school. Ye canny get daein nuthin!

We made it back to the bus and back to the school. The driver shook his head as the weans got off but didn't repeat his comment of the morning - mainly because C and I had set aside a tip for him.

You need to be young to deal with stuff like that - and you need to like kids.