Chameleon Magazine

There are some memories so deeply stitched into the fabric of who you are that you forget they’re there—until someone tugs on the thread.

That thread got tugged unexpectedly this week, thanks to a thoughtful post over on Jayangi Prathibha’s blog. She asked a simple but powerful question about childhood books—one that sent me spiraling straight back to the smell of Sunday dinners, the feel of worn-out carpet, and the sound of the tenement stairs creaking under busy feet.

That’s when The Broons came back to me.

Not just the comic. The whole feeling of it.

If you grew up in Scotland, you’ll understand. The Broons Book wasn’t just a collection of laughs—it was a family. It was your family. Loud. Loyal. A little daft. Full of love you had to squint to see, but that was always there. Dudley D. Watkins, the man behind the drawings, didn’t just sketch characters. He captured a way of life with warmth and wit that still makes my chest ache when I think about it.

So thank you, Jayangi, for asking that question.

You didn’t just spark a memory—you opened a door.

And for a moment, I walked through it and sat back down in the world I thought I’d left behind. 

The Broons Book

It’s hard to explain The Broons to someone who didn’t grow up with them. You don’t just “read” The Broons Book—you feel like you lived alongside them. It wasn’t just a comic strip. It was a mirror held up to a certain kind of Scottish life, the kind that smelled of boiled potatoes and wet wool, where the telly was never quite loud enough over the sound of family noise.

The Broons lived in a tenement flat, just like half the folk I knew. No glitz, no glamour—just a loud, bickering, loving family trying to make the best of it. Paw always trying to be the man of the house, but Maw was the real backbone. Granpaw with his grumbles and wisdom, The Bairn always managing to say what the rest of us were thinking. It was us. It was us.

Every second Christmas, someone would hand you the annual. You’d crack it open, run your hand over the shiny new pages, and suddenly be back in Auchenshoogle. No matter how much had changed in the world, The Broons were still there—worrying about bills, falling in love, burning the dinner, getting all dressed up for a “doon the dancin’.” They never had much, but they always had each other. That mattered more.

There’s a comfort in that kind of constancy. A family you could laugh at, cry with, and roll your eyes at—just like your own. And in that sense, The Broons Book isn’t just a bit of nostalgia. It’s a feeling—a warm, familiar, slightly daft hug from the past that reminds you where you come from.

That’s what it means to me.