Iain Maciver writes ... » schools

My shame as I shot RAF warplane on that historic UHI inauguration flypast

Iain — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 22:00:40 +0000

Published: Press and Journal 29 August 2011

Our network of North Scottish colleges waited many years to be awarded a charter to properly call itself a university. Many moons ago they were dubbed the University of the Highlands and Islands. We thought it does what it says on the tin.

Then someone pointed out that it wasn’t a proper uni yet and wouldn’t be until it began handing out proper gongs. Calling it a uni without the ability to award degrees would just be ridiculous. That would be like having a proper local authority in a democratic country which only did things which were approved by a tiny, extremist, religious minority. Absurd. Could never happen here.

So they scratched their learned heads and wondered how they could quietly drop the word university. They needed to demonstrate their emphasis on rural studies and renewable energy. So it became the College of Rural and Alternative Power Studies. Wonder why they dropped that.

Then they said let’s tell them that our new name is just UHI. We’ll use that until we can call ourselves the real thing. Many sneered and said, look, these guys can’t even spell uni. So UHI, or Unconfirmed Hallowed Institution, it has been.

That all changed this year when it was awarded the full status of Uni of the Hi and I. They had a shindig to celebrate with everyone splogged up in their academic robes. Slightly spooky it was – like being on the set of The Wicker Man.

The highlight was the flypast on Thursday. Despite the defence cuts, the RAF found an under-used Tornado GR4 jet at XV Squadron in RAF Lossiemouth to fly slowly over the 13 UHI sites. In Stornoway, it was due at a quarter to one, sorry 12:45 GMT, sir, and hundreds of students and staff trooped outside to witness this magnificent historic event. I had my camera set on rapid shooting.

Supposed to just zoom over from Invershneggie in 10 minutes, that was the problem. Tornado jets don’t do slow. It suddenly appeared and I grabbed the camera to follow it in the viewfinder as it roared high over my head but I overbalanced and ended up flat on my back, camera still clicking away.

Thankfully, the assembled academic masses never witnessed my humiliation. They too were craning their necks following the Tornado as it descended to practice bomb Sulasgeir.

Using acronyms instead of proper words isn’t new. I remember when Great Bernera got rid of its bulls because they were chasing post vans, a man came from town to attend to the forlorn Friesians and the sombre Shorthorns.

I’ll always remember how my parents used to simultaneously furrow their brows when I, an inquisitive nine-year-old, used to ask who was the cove in the big rubber apron going into our byre. “He’s just the AI man, that’s all. Now finish your porridge.”

So what did he do, I kept asking. AI? What did AI stand for? “Nothing. He just goes to talk to the cows, that’s all. And AI doesn’t stand for anything interesting, does it, father? You tell him. You should be the one telling the boy about that sort of thing.”

Why should Dad be the one to tell me the man in the apron in the byre wasn’t there to do anything but talk to the cows and that AI didn’t stand for anything at all? It didn’t stack up. Then I heard Dad saying they would have to pay him to whisper these sweet nothings to Buttercup and Sooty.

OMG, I thought. That must be Dr Dolittle in our byre. Wait till I tell them in school tomorrow. They’ll never believe it. But they did, because Dolittle had also been doing nothing much to speak of in their byres.

Many years later I found out what the letters AI actually stood for. I was shocked even then but at the age of 34 I tried not to let on Dolittle was in our byre and what he was up to. Up to his elbow, by the sound of it.

Acronyms are also a brilliant way to communicate difficult unpalatable facts to people who don’t want to listen. I had a serious problem myself recently after I installed new software on my computer. I read and reread the manual but it still wasn’t working right.

There was obviously something wrong with the computer or the software as I was convinced I had done everything the book said. In desperation, I called a certain computer geek I know. Having been the first person to tell me a spreadsheet was not a duvet for a double bed, I’d maintained a degree of respect for his vast knowledge. He somehow connected his computer many miles away to mine in Stornoway. Then he hummed and hahed a lot before eventually telling me he’d found a serious malfunction. See, I said. I’d told him there was something wrong, didn’t I? Was it hardware or software, I asked.

Neither, he’d decided. He was going to have to come to see me. This was all down to a severe case of PEBKAC. Er, excuse me. We’ll have less of that kind of filthy talk on the phone to my house. I told him straight. Oh, that’s the name of the problem? Sorry, I thought you were just being rude to me.

So what is PEBKAC? Is there a cure? Will it cost much to fix? It was, he told me patiently, an engineering acronym. And it stands for Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair.

Summertime and the teaching is easy – love the sirs and misses

Iain — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 18:55:44 +0000

Published Press and Journal – Aug 1, 2011

No matter where you go at this time of year, they are there. Big-eyed, bushy-tailed happy people who you haven’t seen for ages. You know them but haven’t actually spoken to them for about a year. Now, who are they again? Who are these exuberant, fondly-remembered people who, like bats, frogs, tortoises and ladybirds, have suddenly woken up and stormed back into your life?

Let me tell you. They are teachers. Teachers on their holidays.

Alive and full of the joys, they have escaped their hidey-holes and are now intent on seeing and being seen and populating the entire world for six weeks. There is this great unseen community of educationalists who you just do not bump into most of the time but who are somehow living parallel lives in classrooms up and down the country. These teachers and lecturers look like us, they talk like us. That is the end of the similarity.

Locked in a mysterious state of part-hibernation, the entire profession becomes unsociable and distant to their friends for 46 weeks of the year dividing their time between classroom and bed then, come the end of June, bang, they are everywhere.

Suddenly, they are in the supermarket, in the pub, galloping down the street and playing in bands. They jump and scream, punching the air as if they have just been freed on parole from some penitentiary where they have been caged for many years. And, boy, are they happy about it. It’s good to see them in the real world. Say hullo. Buy them a drink.

However, a word of warning. Although they now venture out into the sunlight, teachers are fragile creatures. Whatever you do, don’t ask them why you haven’t seen them for yonks. That will just put a downer on things. All the paperwork, all the stress. They will suddenly look crestfallen. And don’t even think of lightening the mood by saying something like, och well, they have long holidays to make up for it. Bad move. That will merely cause tears to flow. It will only remind them that their hibernation is a long one and that soon they must return to their workaday existence where they will toil as shadows lengthen and, months hence, shorten too. This is their lot. This is … Curriculum For Excellence.

I met some of them on Friday. The occasion was a fundraiser at Stornoway Golf Club for the planned horse and pony arena which, if all goes well, will be erected soon on the Lochs Road. When I wasn’t auctioneering, we were entertained by the Stornoway Big Band. Did you know about them? Why didn’t anyone tell me? They are somewhat phenomenal.

Musical director, and teacher, Gavin Woods whooshed, waved, pouted and swung them through their Rat Pack programme. We got I’ve Got You Under My Skin, Something Stupid, New York, New York and all that jazz. It was the most surprisingy enjoyable evening I’ve had this year. OK, there was the night of Mrs X’s birthday when she gave me a present, but it was the best night which didn’t involve Swedish massage oil.

There were guest singers too. They weren’t all ones I knew but they included teacher Sineag and Gerry Blane, band member Calum Watt and Alan and Cath Fish, also a teacher, who caused ripples in my dram when she did My Way. What a belter. She seems full of fun too – even for a teacher in July. I think if Cath was brave enough to drop the h from her first name she would be destined for giddy superstardom.

Teachers, lecturers, tutors and others who we disrespect until we mature are wonderful people. I certainly couldn’t do what they do. It would drive me nuts. I respect anyone with the ability, commitment and endless patience ensuring pupils make the best of themselves by encouraging them, persuading them, cajoling them and even beating them to a pulp with strips of hardened leather from Lochgelly until they are covered in red welts – or, even better, crimson blood.

What? They don’t do that any more? Aw, even less reason to be a teacher. It’s all different now, apparently. Codes about this, that and the other which the kids and the teachers must follow. Many schools are now revising all their policies and making them tougher.

One island school had its new stricter dress code introduced by the headmaster at new year. The kids complied but in the first week it was three of the teachers who were kept in after class. In my day there was a dress code too but it all came down to economics whether it was applied or not. One kid could cut his toenails without taking off his socks or shoes.

You have to feel sorry for teachers when they are made to do things because it is the policy of the council. Those overpaid people in the offices down on Sandwick Road are constantly dreaming up ways for the poor teachers to do more for less. At least, that is what the teachers who were sitting with me on Friday night were telling me. Maybe I’ll not mention their names, eh?

I do agree with them though. These hard-pressed souls have to stand there and teach stuff that is never going to be of much practical use. For instance, I’ve never understood why so much of my time in the Nicolson Institute was taken up with having to learn algebra. I’m never actually going to go there.

Exclusive interview with Cardinal Keith O’Brien

Iain — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 17:00:19 +0000

Here is the link to my interview with the Cardinal. It is more than 25 minutes long. First of all, I welcomed the Cardinal to Stornoway. Press the arrow to hear how he replied:

Sunday sports centre survey

Iain — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 18:40:15 +0000

There is a survey doing the rounds on people’s views on whether the sports centre in Stornoway should open seven days a week. Whatever your views, you should make them known. Just click below.

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/FRXBXVW

Taxpayers grit teeth as Comhairle offers £250,000

Iain — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 09:26:19 +0000

Comhairle nan Eilean Siar has offered to pay an island contractor about a quarter of a million pounds to drop a legal action.

The contractor threatened to sue after it emerged that the Western Isles council wrongly awarded a road gritting contract worth £2 million to a rival firm.

It is the latest embarrassment for the authority which has lost several legal actions in recent years amid claims that certain individuals have been trying to influence who gains work.

Sources revealed that the evaluation of the bids for the so-called winter maintenance contract for five years was wrongly carried out and people with inappropriate family links were involved in the handling of the bid envelopes.

Two contractors were after the work. When the one who lost learned of a string of irregularities in how it had been dealt with, he gave formal notice of his intention to sue. Sources suggested his claim could have been as much as £1 million.

In another settlement last year, Stornoway firm Nicolson Accountancy went to court when it failed to get a contract with the new schools project. The freestanding company Sgoiltean Ura LLP, which is run by councillors and authority staff, awarded the work to rival CIB Services even though the Nicolson bid at £89,000 was the cheapest. Yet it had been illegally marked down in the evaluation scoring.

As well as having to give him the contract, the council had to pay compensation and legal fees totalling £13,000 to former councillor Angus Nicolson just when it was looking for redundancies, making cutbacks and reducing services.

Electrical contractor Iain Crichton spent more than 10 years battling the island council and trying to prove a street-lighting contract had been awarded unfairly to another in-house outfit. His firm was wound up and sold in the process. Two years ago, he finally got a quarter of the £500,000 compensation he sought for his losses.

Several councillors last night (TUE) said they were disgusted that the tendering processes had again been found to be unfair and skewed in favour of certain groups while weighted against others.

One said: “There is something far wrong here. It stinks. Certain people in the top echelons of this council are not playing by the rules. Audit Scotland has been here recently and given the process a clean bill of health so I wonder if they are being told the whole story.”

A council insider suggested that it was actually a firm of consultants who were running the tendering process. “However, the councillors concerned are responsible for the decisions taken,” the source said.

The council must save £24.5million over the coming four years. Cuts of £5.1 million were confirmed to public services last week. So far, 60 council staff have taken voluntary redundancy or early retirement and council leader Angus Campbell warned this week that more compulsory redundancies will be necessary.

Leading council figures said they understood the payout offered to be about £250,000.

The official council spokesman did not deny the size of the offer and said: “This is an ongoing legal matter between the council and a contractor who had tendered for winter maintenance work. The Chief Executive was authorised to enter into negotiations with the tenderer at the December series of meeting and the outcome of these negotiations was reported to the policy and resources committee.
“After careful consideration of the tender process the council agreed to offer an out-of-court settlement. This offer has not as yet been formally accepted. We therefore cannot say anything further at this stage.”

How I beat the police and got papal visit criminal to confess

Iain — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 09:07:05 +0000

COULD the Pope be coming to the islands? All that uncalled-for frostiness and threats of boycotts may have put His Holiness off the idea of staying in the central belt for long.

I can tell you that there have been quite a few pointers recently that suggest that something very papal is afoot up here. Did you know, for instance, that Aer Lingus has just announced flights from London to Knock for £24? Honestly. Have a peek at the company’s website.

For those not well up on island geography, Knock is that bit of Point you come to after the first bit. A really charming village with much to commend it, it has a wee school and, er, a lovely view from up the hill of other wonderful places you could visit. And, well, that’s about it. A really lovely school, though, with windows and everything.

Even although the airlines are now advertising flights to Point from London that are cheaper than a taxi from town, you can bet our council has done nothing to prepare.

Have they built an airport there? Can’t say I’ve noticed. Still, at least a month to go.

Knock is just two miles from Melbost International Airport and the technical services department will just have to get its finger out and cobble together something before the middle of next month.

If it quickly widens the double-track road between Seaview and Claypark, something smaller than an Airbus could land. Aer Lingus does fly BAe 146 planes, which are not as big, so the wingspan wouldn’t slice off the top storeys of quite so many of the Seaview houses.

You can put these things down anywhere – unless you are Prince Charles, of course. Was it not HRH who managed to put a 146 in the ditch on Islay in 1995? That’s what happens when you try to land a 146 on a proper runway.

The usual whingers will moan. Happily, the council leadership will be ready with their new mantra – we are doing it for the good of your health.

Everything they do, apparently, is now for the good of our health. They have denied the golf club a Sunday licence and are keeping the sports centre closed on Sundays, all for the good of our health. Brilliant.

Anywhere else in this country, hordes of people would be taking to the streets and asking what these people are on. There would be letters to the papers, calls for votes of no confidence and intervention by the government.

Not here. Everyone seems fine with decisions which fly in the face of logic.

It’s a heart-stopping approach to decision-making which is making the Western Isles what it is today. Luckily for them, no one cares.

Now that the NHS has decided that ward visits in hospitals by ministers are merely spiritual health, they can say the same about a papal visit. Forget those blood pressure tablets, come and see the Pope instead.

A parking area for the papal plane will be needed so the Pope can come down the steps and kiss the holy soil of Innse Gall. Oh dear.

Guess what? What? Point football pitch is absolutely adjacent. It could have been put there for that purpose. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? And the clubhouse Ionad Stoodie would be ideal for the big man to meet the great leaders and decision-makers of the peninsula.

The Vatican security briefing is very specific. It says only those who can prove their ID can get in. So that’s Messrs Iain Don Maciver, of CalMac, and Iain D. Campbell, of the Free Church.

That’s fine; keeps it simple. It’ll be a lovely day.

Would it be a first if the Pontiff did decide to divert to Lewis? I ask because, in 1982, John Paul II also visited Scotland. A lovely, smiling man, so unlike most of the holy men we know, he visited Bellahouston in Glasgow and Murrayfield in Edinburgh. However, a few weeks later, an island newspaper had a jaw-dropping front-page story under the headline: “Sign of the Times – The Pope on Lewis.”

Someone on holiday in the capital just after the Pope’s visit saw the signs were still up. He put a few in his boot.

A few days later, a number of yellow 5ft x 4ft signs suddenly sprouted up outside Free Churches in Back, North Tolsta and Bayble, the FP church in Stornoway and on a Gress telephone pole. They said “Papal Visit” and, because they were urging drivers to go straight ahead, the signs pointed upwards.

Pandemonium. Was the Pope indeed in the island? Was it the end of the world as the Free Church knew it? People kept saying they thought it was a sign. Yes, Sherlock, it was.

The cops said it was none of the usual pre-CCTV Saturday night window breakers for which the island was then notorious. The file is probably in Church Street nick, still lying open.

Now the offender has, as His Holiness has always urged us, made a confession – to me.

I can reveal exclusively that, 28 years almost to the day, the phantom sign erector tells me he has seen the error of his ways.

He has carved a career in the media. It is not ideal, but probably better than walking the streets nicking road signs and causing much gnashing of teeth in more-fundamentalist churches.

Will Stornoway CID do a cold case review like they do on the telly? Probably. Will I be taken in? I was in London in 1982, but if that blonde sergeant is on duty I will suggest she gives me a strip search to be sure.

Spare a thought, though, for my friend tonight as he waits for the inevitable knock on the door, the slumped appearance in the dock and the shame that will be heaped on him.

Don’t worry, M, we will have a great party – whenever you get out.

What did Alex Salmond mean when he used the word brammer?

Iain — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 11:37:44 +0000

WHEN the first minister and president-in-waiting of the republic of Scotland starts speaking Gaelic, we teuchters sit up and take notice. When we figure out he is not actually speaking our language but some obscure Scots – or, even worse, Doric – we go back to completely ignoring the poor fellow again.

So when Alex Salmond said recently that the election in Glasgow North-East was going to be “a brammer”, Gaels from Galson to Galashiels looked at each other and together went: “Duda?” What the heck was the big man on about?

I was quite shocked. Almost as shocked as I was on Saturday night when I turned on the telly to see Harry Hill’s TV Burp only to find Jock Murray, Kenny Mobil and the other naked peatcutters flashing their credentials on there. Did you see that? No? Count yourself very lucky, indeed.

Brammer, or so we all thought up here, was a proper Gaelic term that had been nicked and moulded by uncaring monoglots to fit the rules of English. Like the word galore, and duff, and subsidy.

Predictably, all the political correspondents were scrambling for their compendiums of Scottish slang. And a right burach they got themselves into as they decided to get to the bottom of this brammer business.

Alex Salmond meets a bramair in Stornoway

Some said it was a term from the military in India and from the Hindu god Brahma, so it meant something deserving of respect and admiration. Hmm.

Some quoted a slang dictionary that had brammer listed between bowfin’ (smelly) and brassic (broke) as a west of Scotland word for splendid. Might have been what Alex Salmond meant but, nope, not up here it isn’t.

Others said it was another word for a woman that is pleasing to the eye as an alternative to smasher or stoater. No, that’s just pios math.

Let’s be honest, they were all wrong as far as we were concerned. Brammer, brammar, brahma, bràmair, with an accent or without – however you spell it – is a mighty fine word.

It is, of course, a term used when addressing children of school age about their boyfriends and girlfriends.

As in: “So, young Tommy, have you got a brammer yet?”

It can also be handy for parental guidance sessions about the role of the teaching profession, as in: “Now, Kylie, listen to me. Mr Macdonald is not your brammer. He is just your maths teacher. Yes, I know he looks like Simon Cowell, but that is not a good thing. OK?”

The term is polite, unequivocal and a completely innocent and Gaelic way of addressing the sticky matter of interpersonal relationships. That means that it has always been completely suitable for use on the Gaelic radio greetings and requests programme Na Dùrachdan on Friday evenings.

However, and remember this, it is not suitable for using when you stumble out of the Lewis Bar on a Saturday night and are convinced someone is giving you the glad eye.

No, you don’t ask if he or she has a brammer yet. You, of course, ask if they would like to come back to a party because you have half a tonne of cheap supermarket lager back at the flat and you need someone to help you finish it. Well, I am told that is how the romantic etiquette of most Stornoway lads goes nowadays.

But which is the correct spelling of that word? To answer the question, I tracked down Neen Mackay, a veteran of the greetings programme from, oh, decades ago. That word was a big part of her life back then, as I remember.

I think Neen was worried that I would not put it the right way in the paper. So just to put her mind at rest that I have not made a mistake or that she is not being misquoted in any way I will just reprint her entire reply.

“Aye, aye, cove. Properly, it’s bràmair. But, for country folk, any word beginning with ‘bram’ will do.

“So, how are you, anyway, big boy? Good to hear from you. All this talk of bràmairs takes me back to when you and I were working together. Gosh, we had a few bràmairs back then, didn’t we? In fact, we were a couple of bràmairs. Oh mo chreach sa thainig. Good job our partners don’t know what you and I got up to back then, eh?

“If I can help you with any little thing at all just give me a tinkle any time.”

Yes, well, I have no idea what Ms Mackay is on about there. I hardly knew the woman. It was all a long time ago.

Anyway, she reckoned the correct word was bràmair, even if they did have their own funny versions in Dalmore and Dalbeg. She should know.

That was good enough for me, so I went to check that word in the Gaelic college’s Stòr-dàta Briathrachais Gàidhlig. That’s a sort of online database of all Gaelic thingummybobs in the known universe.

And, bingo, it’s there. It is listed but, in a piece of awful, rampant Gaelic sexism, it has bràmair down as just meaning girlfriend or pin-up. On the radio request show and while I was growing up in Great Bernera primary school at any rate, it had always included us males of the species, too.

So I conducted more research and found another problem. Looking up bramair in that most comprehensive of tomes, Dwelly’s Gaelic Dictionary, I found it listed also, but with yet another altogether different meaning. While putting his dictionary together, Mr Dwelly decided that a bramair was a flatulent fellow. That’s what it says. I am only the messenger.

I looked up flatulent. All I can say is that I am more confused than ever by what Alex Salmond said about the Glasgow North East by-election. While politicians have often been said to be full of hot air, it is really a bit much for anyone to call any of them a bramair in the Dwelly’s sense of the word. Even if they sometimes are.

The new Nicolson Institute

Iain — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 15:15:11 +0000

An application for outline planning consent for a new Nicolson Institute has been submitted. And here is what it would look like …

What a quiet and calmly studious scene. Not quite realistic though as that road is very busy with traffic converging from all directions to the mini- roundabout which should be shown extreme left.

A step in the right direction

Iain — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 23:22:35 +0000

Back in my RAF days, I flew several times in Nimrods from Kinloss. We would hunt Soviet submarines lurking anywhere in that wee stretch between Ireland and Iceland. That is probably about all I should tell you about these hush-hush Cold War sorties. Not just because I signed the Official Secrets Act but because I spent much of these nine-hour flights clutching a ministry-issue sick bag in one hand while trying to reheat steak pies, mashed potato and a strange non-runny grey gravy specially formulated for aerial sub-hunting, probably by chucking the powdered mash in it. Even us ground-based air traffic controlling crabs could fly in the shiny hi-tech state-of-the-art NATO sub-hunter if we helped with tiffin. We had to take care around the flickering screens and banks of buttons in the bay that was the aircraft’s nerve centre. Nothing was to be spilled on them. Or vomited on them. Or over any of the whiskery master air electronics operators. I was successful in that. Mostly.

A Russki sub popped up unexpectedly once causing Captain Biggles to throw the unwieldy Hawker Siddley into a steep right turn. The tea things went flying. Spoons and mugs flew around the cabin. I never found the teapot. An inadvertent oral discharge may have dribbled onto some flashing radar console thingy. Probably cost a chunk of that year’s defence budget to fix. Did I own up? Sorry, official secret.

I would gaze wistfully down from 25,000 feet at the Minch, the strip of sea between the mainland and the sparkling jewels that are the Western Isles. If it wasn’t for the expensive ferry journey, I thought, I would have occasionally nipped home to Lewis in my minivan. Much has changed in the decades since then. The ageing Nimrod’s safety record is, sadly, not what it was. Reports last year said a teapot was found in a hole in the fuselage of one Nimrod. I am glad they found it. And, unless that cold fish Vladimir Putin goes all chilly on us again, the Cold War is over.

Yet much remains the same. We still have to stump up a small fortune to sail the Minch. Not much change from £170 for himself, herself and two point four brats. That was a lot of sheep subsidy before we lost that too. So islanders were agog when the minister jetted in to announce Road Equivalent Tariff (RET). An SNP election promise, we were assured that RET would slash ferry fares. Taking a car on a ferry will cost the same as driving it the same distance on a road, gullible Hebrideans were assured. So we voted them in. And we thought yesterday was when island life would change forever.

Stewart Stevenson, for he is the minister, bounced into the ferry terminal like a man with a surprise present in his pocket. His interesting hair stands up, silver and proud. He could have played that kid Eddie in the Munsters when he was young. With his flapping pink tie and big handshakes, he would liven up any kiddies’ party.

An average car costs £120 return from Stornoway to Ullapool. It is 48 miles as the crow flies. And Revenue and Customs sets 40p per mile as the allowance for ordinary cars. So, under RET, it should cost a sensible £19.20 single or £38.40 return. Passenger fares should be the same as a 48-mile bus journey. That is RET, a Really Easy Tariff. The one that Mr Pink Tie actually gave us was 60p a mile plus a £5 per car surcharge. He then put it off until after the summer season and made it only valid until Spring 2011. In other words, the next Holyrood election. It will cut our ferry fares by half – when it comes. But listen, people, it is not RET.

A step in the right direction? Sure. But so much remains to be done. For these isles to have an economy in 30 years, the mindless blocking of job creation by an unholy alliance of evangelicals from the rump of a self-splintered church, cowardly community leaders and uncaring bird fanciers must end. Promoting second-rate island tourism with its over-priced hotels, mediocre customer service and barren, treeless moors is silly. Our main attractions are two beaches on Harris and the remains of a Druidic puzzle.

It is already a regular pastime for tourists to slip quietly into Lewis pubs to see what ingenious ways the lesser-spotted Hebridean can find to squander his Jobseekers Allowance. There are no high fliers left here except the couple of white-tailed eagles screeching over a windswept moor and the ruins of countless schools. These are birds considered so important that a windfarm, the best economic plan for a generation, had to be killed off for them.

Published in the Press and Journal on Feb 27, 2008

Assessing failing child assessors

Iain — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 13:38:49 +0000

Imagine the sheer hell of being a young child locked up in a bleak institution for years on end. No toys. No education and almost the only contact with adults being when you are being shouted at to behave. Being dressed up and ordered to smile broadly when visitors arrive who may adopt you. That is what happened to Adel and Karina Wilson, the most polite and kind schoolgirls you could come across. I met them a couple of days ago and was struck by their lovely attitude to me, to their adoptive parents and to each other.

Aged 11 and eight, these charming wee girls were caged in two Russian orphanages, just 20 minutes apart, until three years ago. Their natural mother had been an alcoholic and they had been plucked away for their own health and safety by the authorities. Karina was only three months then. Conditions were grim with no stimulation. A disturbing video of Karina taken before she was adopted shows her banging her head against the wall. Kids suffering from lack of stimulation do that. It’s difficult to watch. She now has an eye defect. Maybe it was caused by the mother’s drinking, the head banging or, well, who knows. Her big sister has no hearing on one side which causes her big problems. They have difficulty concentrating. They are awkward with other kids. Should that be a surprise to anyone knowing their background?

The girls were adopted by Roger and Janet Wilson who decided in semi-retirement they had love to spare. They moved to the Western Isles but, oh heck, that was not a good move for them. Despite their endless protocols and procedures, the small school they went to did not assess them properly, if at all. Nor did they tell the psychologists and other professionals who should have been told. The effect of the trauma they suffered in their early years meant the girls fell behind badly. Four hours of homework for a six-year-old at the weekend is not the answer to that. Anyone can see that. The parents complained bitterly and pleaded for supervised playtimes and other help. Nothing was done. They had to take Adel and Karina out of the unsympathetic school, massively disrupting their own lives. An adjudicator now finds the Wilsons were largely right in the claims.

The family have had enough. They are leaving the islands. As we chatted over coffee, I found myself gulping at the implications of the Wilsons’ predicament. What if these caring, articulate parents had not complained? What if, like most of us, they had just accepted these professionals’ bumbling incompetence and cover-ups? We tend to think they must know best. They often do not. We should worry now. How many other kids in the Western Isles – and elsewhere – are not assessed properly and face the anguish of being left foundering and constantly trying to catch up? If the assessors are not assessing, it is time to assess the assessors. How many of them would go to the top of the class?