Over the past six years I have shared fascinating tales I’ve ‘dug up’ from within the Southern Necropolis which I haunted as a boy.

Now with the regeneration of my birthplace Oatlands, which sits alongside the cemetery, I would like to give you an insight into that area and its rich past.

Like many a Glaswegian, I was born and brought up in the world of tenements. No matter when you were out and about playing in the street there was always someone who knew you keeping an eye on you and if need be, reporting back to your parents should you be misbehaving or even dogging school.

Speaking of dogging school, or should I say ‘playing truant’, I remember once when I had “taken a morning off” and the Truant Officer came calling at our door. Well, did I not end up lying behind the door on the floor? There I watched, fascinated as the woman’s hand pushed open the letterbox for a wee fly peek and surprise, surprise, she tried the door handle as well!

Obviously I couldn’t complain or tell my parents, as I wasn’t supposed to be there to start with.

Memories of early days in Cramond Street where I lived, include the bogeyman who lurched round in every corner of the landings in the close. When you made attempts to come go the stairs, the last thing you wanted was a broken gas light and a landing in pure darkness. (Goodness! I remember gas lights!) You had to make a quick run round the bend and up and into the hoose! There you could feel safe once again.

My neighbour on the same landing, Meg, was a cracking wummin and on some nights, acted as my vocal lifeline shouting my name down the stairs if I was too scared to make the journey up. Meg had the greatest  talent in making tablet. Of course she used the lid of a Rover Biscuit Tin. Funny thing is, I can remember lots of people then using these tins for a variety of reasons.

When my Grandfather died, I inherited his ‘Rover Biscuit Tin Tool Box’, which consisted of a fascinating collection of screws, nails, and other unusual fittings. My grandparents were fantastic people. Granny worked as a cleaner with the same printing company (McCorquodales) for over 40 years. When she retired she was presented with a bunch of flowers from the Manager, whose desk she had polished since he’d been an office clerk.

Gran headed for work at 4.30 am and didn’t get home till after 3.00pm in the afternoon. Her daily tasks included cleaning houses in the Newton Mearns area of Glasgow. In fact she developed such a good reputation for her work that she was always in demand and made many friends.

My grandfather was a French polisher to trade and his little black suitcase contained an array of powders and polishing chemicals, made more intriguing by his initials ‘H.C.’ (Hugh Currie) on the lid.

Every Saturday my family converged on my grandparents’ house for the traditional homemade soup and huge crispy potato fritters, made even better by the use of baking powder in the batter mix – rerrrrr!

As always when my cousins and I got together, the volume level increased quite a bit and my gran would belt out the request for ‘quiet’ by reminding us all about the ‘wummin below’.

The old Oatlands is etched on my memory and I still have friends who live there. So within the next few months I will be launching a website called www.newoatlands.co.uk.

I would welcome contributions and photos from those who remember the sandstone, punty-up days in old Oatlands. Stories and ideas can be submitted via the email address memories@newoatlands.co.uk or by contacting the Local News at localnews@btconnect.com or phone 0141 226 4898 and leave your name and contact number if you get an answer machine.

Next month look out for the story of…
LUCKY MIDGIES AND THE BIG HUNGRY DUG.