messages

When I was young I’d sometimes stay with my grandma in Scotland.  She’d often send me to the local shop for her ‘messages’.  I’m struck by the fact, that this morning, I’ve just walked down to the local shop for my messages.

The technology has changed - as a boy I’d be given a scribbled note.  Now we have a whiteboard stuck on the inside of a cupboard door. I have photo of the board on my phone - more convenient than writing a note on paper, or taking the door with me.  

And yes I know, Anniemay has already pointed out, the writing is still scribbled.

My mum used to tell me stories about how she would be sent to the shop before school, for her messages.  She would remember jam, cheese and oil for my grandad’s lamp.  This last item was a poignant reminder.  He was a survivor of the Redding (near Falkirk) pit disaster in 1923; 40 men died. 

There was one type of message that I was entrusted with that my mother was not.  It was a secret.  Once a week she’d send me to the local billiard hall with a note.  Sometimes I’d return with an envelope.  It was years before my mum found out - she was horrified; her only son, a short-trousered bookie’s runner.