This is my Grandfathers Dress Stewart Kilt, not the one I wore to school.

Of course it wasn’t a skirt but a kilt, but to everyone else but me, it was a skirt. I was age 10 at Farnborough Road Junior School, Southport, on summer clothes day. Was I bullied? You bet and I expected it. This was a challenge which I paid for, punched to the ground, constant skirt flipping. Much to the disappointment of my tormentors I had serious underpants on, unlike my grandfather.

He was a London Scottish soldier at the trenches in World War One and was regularly inspected to make sure he wasn’t wearing any, which was “illegal”, and a sign of enfeeblement. A few lashes would fix that. Later I noticed a fab tartan pair of boxer shorts he had, but they were from his dress, not army, kilt. I still wear them (as not visible above).

I was so proud of my kilt and wee sporran, bought by my grandfather in a splendid shop along the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. I took the blows with flamboyant outrage, and I would guess none of my school chums had ever seen a kilt, apart from my Scottish friend Maurice. I was well aware of the notional provocation. I also had a Sgian Dubh, a ceremonial stabbing knife kept in the sock, but thought it wiser not to take it along. This black dagger had not gone down well at Sunday School. Although it could have come in useful!

Years later I wore shorts to my senior school, it was summertime. I was pilloried by my adolescent peers in long trousers. What a hoot! Don’t zig, zag. Have confidence. Always a joy to be different.