I had a call from an old mate, Steve Tinsley (because that’s his name), a couple of weeks ago. This was the gist of it –
Me: Alright mate.
Tinz: Alright mate. There’s a school reunion in a fortnight. Saturday 6th December at the Rose & Crown. Class of ’86 or whenever it was.
Me: Have fun mate.
Tinz: Come on geez, you know you wanna be there.
Me: No I don’t.
Tinz: Yes you do, and I’ve been given the job of getting you there. Come on …
Etc etc. So that’s how I came to be at a school reunion back in London on Saturday night, which was fun, but a bizarre and unsettling evening at times. It was fun to get pissed with old mates I haven’t seen in a while. Years can pass but everyone slipped straight into their old roles. It’s funny how blokes can do that.
The unsettling bit was realising that my mind for faces might not be what I thought it was. A woman walked up to me all “Pete! Pete Moore! Bloody hell it’s you.” I asked her if she was one of my teachers. Nope, we were in the same class, and we were the same age. But I didn’t have a clue who she was till she told me her name, and even then it was a vague recollection. And that’s how it went on all night. I was chatting with Fiona O’Shaughnessy for ten minutes with no idea who she was, and I spent half my teenage years trying to cop a feel of her tits. I even went out with Debbie Gibson for a few months and I looked right through her.
In the end I realised I didn’t have a clue who I’d been to school with and who was just a pub punter. I can’t be bothered with pretending to recognise people, so with each “Pete, it’s you!” I mainly replied with “and you are?”
I was sure I’d recognise everyone, but I came away thinking I must be going senile.