A School Reunion
On becoming a Grumpy Old Man
On Sunday, I met up with some of my old school friends for lunch in a lovely old pub near London Bridge.
The George was built in 1676 and is London’s sole surviving galleried inn. Whoever manages it now has taken the sensible decision to limit the menu to standard British Comfort food accompanied by (very) decent ales and a modest selection of wines. The only concession to culinary modernity was the addition to most dishes of a quarter of a pointed cabbage, par-boiled and grilled on two sides. I realise that a professional food writer would wax lyrical about the degree of char on the ‘Hispi’ cabbage. But I feel plain speaking suits The George and its fare – and me, to be frank.
Five of us sat around, quaffing thirstily, consuming these heaping plates of wonderful food. The sixth member of the group joined us in time for pudding, because, as a Bishop, he, …er, works on Sundays. Spot the cassock…
Bearing in mind that we hadn’t seen each other for half a century – as in truly 50 years since we left school in 1974 – you’d expect we had a lot of catching up to do. Most of our conversational gambits between mouthfuls started with someone blurting out a class-mate’s half-remembered name. All the others then volunteered guesses at the fellow’s Christian name – in those days, everyone called each other by their surname only, so perhaps it’s understandable.
To my surprise, most of us had stayed in touch with a couple of school mates for one reason or another. Career similarities or geographic location, perhaps. We found that if we pooled our connections, we’d have quite a significant group.
At what point does a gathering of mostly retired Grumpy Old Men become unmanageable? Ten? Fifteen? I don’t know. But I’ll tell you when we find out. We’ll try to find a date and location so everyone can attend.
Towards the end of the main course, it was my turn to confess what I’ve been doing for the last five decades. I began with my thirty years working abroad as a banker and my two decade leap from frying pan into the fire of the UK Construction industry, selling an advanced building system. That admission was greeted with general puzzlement. What on earth possessed me? This morphed into hoots of good-natured laughter when I said I’d gone on to write books about all my overseas adventures.
But an author has to develop a thick skin! I brazened it out and may even have won another reader or two. Check out https://www.amazon.com/stores/Richard-Sexton/author/B0CYLTGNNV to see all my books.
Perhaps I went too far. I tried demonstrating my passion for subjects which affect me deeply by raging about the slug invasion of the tiny patch of productive land I call a garden. Peoples’ faces displayed concern at this. Not, I fancy, with sympathy at my gastropodic plight. More at the true extent of my mental deterioration revealed by this declaration of hate for such defenceless animals. They’re out to get me, I tell you!
The train journey and walk home from the station passed in a delicious haze of bonhomie. This excellent mood lasted until the next morning. I am in the habit of strolling around the garden with a morning cup of coffee. Apparently, dill plants are as attractive to slugs as most everything else. I salvaged what I could from the sad, ragged remnants of this year’s planting. I’m thinking of uprooting a six inch block of plants and creating the dill equivalent of a fire break. How to stop them crossing it? I feel some research coming on
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