WHAT REALLY MATTERS

For those of you who have begun to worry you have embarked on an autobiographical epic, have no fear, you have not; though it has to be said that autobiography is the finest way for telling the truth about other people. I have no plans for such - telling the truth - at the moment. And, of course, you have the security of the delete key approximately three inches away. How easy to silence my voice at the tap of a key.

However, I will try to give a more or less accurate account on the principle that it is better to be a first rate version of oneself than a second rate version of someone else. I will also try to avoid the weakness of the professional scribbler - the tendency to make much ado about very little, to see significance where none exists, to dramatise the perfectly ordinary.

So we are both spared a protracted blog. I say 'both' because for me blogging seems to be a sort of love affair, easy to start but devilishly difficult to put an end to. Rather I present you with what we Scots call the fullness of absence, choosing not to inflict my memories on you. So many memories; it would take a hypnotist to recover half of them. Of course it might give me pleasure to stand before you and unburden myself, but I would have to be terribly selective in my choice since convention demands that one says nothing significant, nothing meaningful. In the world of farewell speeches, everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and who am I to tamper with tradition?

And then there is the vino, and in the vino there may be veritas. And one should never indulge in too much vino or too much veritas in front of those upon whom you might depend for your next reference. A finer wordsmith than I reminds us that humankind cannot bear too much truth. I quite like humankind; after all they are my species, though I prefer them in small numbers. However, even in my cups, or especially in my cups, it would merely be my version of the truth; we all have our own versions because each night we have to sleep with ourselves even though a beloved may be within touching distance. And I would not wish to cause hurt. It would only be my truth; it wouldn't have to mean anything. I've long ago abandoned any search for meaning but I retain a profound set of values; and of values and virtues, the greatest by far is kindness. Note I say values rather than principles. I've never been good at living by my principles and gave up trying many years ago. Better to be kind than right.

I must be careful; unkindness outrages me; the veneer falls away and the Son of Wallace stands revealed. I recall a headteacher at a governors' meeting saying, "Well, I think I might have tamed JP." I fell about laughing. How could any headteacher, any figure of authority, 'tame' me when I've always been unable to tame myself? How easy life would be if I kept my mouth shut, said 'Yes, sir, yes, ma'am', took the rewards, and climbed the greasy pole.

Alas, for me, something will not let me. A voice sounds in my head, "That's WRONG," and the tartan mist comes down. I was taught at Ancrum Road Primary School that to change the world you must first change yourself. And how is this best done? By choosing at every opportunity to do the kindest thing. It may be a road less travelled but it's the only road I know. And that's what really matters.