Do you remember that one kid at school who was that bit different. The awkward one that stood out. “The weird kid”. Ours was Malcolm.

While the rest of us boys chased a tennis ball, herd-like around the playground, Malcolm would be on the periphery intensely scrutinising a flower, an insect or a crack in the pavement quietly muttering to himself. There didn’t seem to be any common ground between us. He was just not one of the “gang”. We all enthusiastically babbled on about football, comics and the latest kids TV shows, Malcolm showed no interest. His thing was dinosaurs. He knew all the Latin names and taxonomy. He knew their dimensions, whether they were carnivorous or herbivores and the periods they roamed the earth. Too much information for us 10 year olds as one by one we sidled away from his latest dissertation.

Malcolm’s Mum was a teacher and my Dad was pretty high up in Education Administration. Many a time she would phone our house and ambush my father. He always looked a bit sheepish while she was busy bending his ear. I suspect it was about Malcolm’s schooling.

Soon after that I was allotted the seat next to Malcolm to share a desk with him. Not my choosing. It could do serious damage to my credibility with the other lads and diminish my “coolness”. This seating arrangement continued throughout my Primary school years.

There were certain things Malcolm did that really bugged me. He had long fingernails. What 10 year old kid doesn’t bite their nails down to the quick ? He would scratch at his flaky skin (did I mention his eczema ?) and dead dermis would drift over like a snow storm settling on my blazer. He would constantly sharpen his pencils into the inkwell and deliberately have his jotter encroach across the imaginary line onto my side of the desk.

My God ! Was I exhibiting early signs of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder ?

At least I’d get a break come the summer holidays. That was not to be. My mother instructed me that I would be attending Malcolm’s birthday party. Not negotiable. I managed to convince some of my friends to attend with the promise of cake, crisps and cordial. My posse reluctantly trudged the quarter mile to Malcolm’s house. Entrapped within the confines of his cosy abode, there was no escaping his posters, books and plastic figurines of dinosaurs and the detailed and lengthy description of each.

Come the end of Primary, my father suggested I should go “to the big school” at Jordanhill like my brothers had done. There was only one other pupil that was going there. You guessed it. Malcolm.

I pleaded day and night for weeks until my father conceded and allowed me to move on to Bearsden Academy like the rest of my class.

I saw Malcolm occasionally after that at bus stops and shops and would give him a cursory nod. Then I moved on and lived my life.

I recently watched a re-run of an eighties Australian film co-incidentally called “Malcolm” – a highly recommended watch. The main character has autism with Asperger’s syndrome.

Duh. Penny. Drop.

Phrases like “on the spectrum” or “neurodivergent” didn’t exist when I was running around in short trousers. Everyone, I’m sure, is aware about it these days and may know someone who exhibits some traits.

I wish I could give you a happy ending but I learnt that our Malcolm found God and joined a Christian cult. I wonder how his dinosaurs fitted in with the Creation story. Soon after that he succumbed to stomach cancer and passed away in his early forties.

Would it have hurt to feign a passing interest in palaeontology ? Could our “gang” have been more inclusive and accepted Malcolm and his ways ? Should we not have been celebrating our individual uniqueness rather than mock it ? 

Malcolm taught me a valuable lesson. It only took over fifty years for me to understand it.

There are no “weird kids”, just kids.

(Post by John Allan from Bridgetown, Western Australia – September 2025.)