Sample biography written in the first person
889 words
In the words of the Rolling Stones:
‘Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste…’
Not true actually. I am female for a start, I have never been wealthy and, as you’ll soon find out, I am seriously lacking in the taste department.
I was born at the arse-end of 1976. Yes, that was the year with the glorious summer that my poor mother struggled through whilst accommodating me in her generous womb. Due on Hogmanay, I arrived 15 days early seemingly in a rush to see the world, a pattern that would continue throughout my life.
There were great celebrations the night I was born, the family had gathered for Sunday dinner which was still very much a formal tradition at that time. I upset this arrangement by popping into the world earlier than expected but, not to worry, for my auntie’s house was full of booze bought in especially for Hogmanay. Those were the days when Hogmanay was still a festival to celebrate rather than the pitiful carcass it is now. So suffice to say that many drinks were taken to celebrate the birth of a first granddaughter and niece.
The celebrations culminated in my uncle spewing in the bath after too much of the old cratur (whisky) and losing his false teeth in the process. This was an event that had occurred so many times that the poor man ended up spending a fortune on false teeth.
So I arrived, a sensible weight of 6lb 6oz – put another 6 on that figure and it could be ominous. Two years after my arrival, my brother came along and completed the family unit.
Growing up in a council house we had a relatively normal life and a fairly idyllic childhood. I know this is unusual and perhaps you might be expecting, or even wanting me to tell you of all the ghastly things that I went through as a child but I can’t yet satisfy your thirst for horror. Besides, the market is overrun with stories of folk who had a terrible childhood. You won’t find any tales of murders or children getting beaten up by nuns here – there wasn’t a nun in sight during my formative years as my family was strictly Presbyterian.
I think the most abusive thing my parents ever did to us was to make us watch ‘The Beechgrove Garden’. To those of you unfamiliar with this TV programme, allow me to explain. Think Alan Titchmarsh or Monty Don but in the north of Scotland. On a regional channel. Ah the good old days of Grampian Television with a tuppenny budget.
Jim McColl was the star of the show and my brother and I got the chance to meet him at the Glasgow Garden festival in 1988. The meeting naturally took place in a greenhouse and I even got his autograph although, being the careless fool that I am, I subsequently lost it.
You may have realised by now that my parents were gardening enthusiasts and that, my friend, is where the real abuse lay. Forced to watch gardening programmes, attend garden festivals and visit the myriad garden centres that litter the Highlands of Scotland.
Gardening was our faith, and the local garden centre, the church that we attended enthusiastically every Sabbath.
It started, as all addictions do, on a small scale. Whilst living in our terraced council house we only went out for border plants, the odd trowel or hoe.
The real malady started when we moved to the country. Suddenly we had a newly built detached house with garden ground on all perimeters. We had to fill this dreary wasteland with colour, texture and shape. Bring on the shrubs, the garden ornaments and shingle. Add in some paving slabs, sheds (plural), a tractor mower and sod it, let’s plant some more trees. The birch trees already in residence had to accept some new neighbours and were soon surrounded by eucalyptus trees, conifers and even a weeping willow.
So enthused were we that my brother and I created our own gardening programme entitled ‘The Woodlands Garden’. Did you see what we did there? ‘Woodlands’ was our house name and we cunningly substituted it in homage to our favourite programme. Each episode of ‘The Woodlands Garden’ began with me introducing my brother and I to the audience, we sadly never had any humans watching this gem of a show. Instead, our audience mainly comprised the odd bird, an occasional red squirrel and Gingie the cat.
Following the introduction, I would talk about the quality of the soil whilst running it through my fingers – I had seen Carole Baxter from Beechgrove do that and had a strange fascination with this motion. My brother would then talk about the trees as he had a better memory for that type of thing and he would then take note of the types of birds frequenting the garden – he was a budding ornithologist.
The programme would end with us giving a sneak preview of what would be happening in the show next week – invariably the same thing that had happened on the current show – before we would enthusiastically wave goodbye.
This game kept us amused for hours and was one of the many ways we found to pass the time living in an area with hardly any neighbours.
Dozy Writes 