I will not say how long ago I left school, except to note that the year was historically important not only for this reason but also because it was the year in which Chakravarti Rajagopalachari was appointed Governor-General of India in succession to Earl Mountbatten, and both Count Bernadotte and Mahatma Gandhi were assassinated.
I was never a keen Old Boy, though in the past I did occasionally attend dinners where I could renew acquaintance with all those whom I had most disliked at school and note happily what the passing of time had done to them. Sometimes I would encounter some doddery bald-headed old fool and think, "Hello! That must be so-and-so's grandfather", to discover that it was in fact so-and-so himself, his stupid face no longer smooth and smug but ravaged and pitiful*. But most of them are dead now so it wouldn't be so much fun.
I suppose I must have supplied my email address to the Old Boys' Association at some point, though I cannot think why. Anyway, I have received at intervals over the years messages advising me of the demise of extremely eminent Old Boys of whom I had never heard, or inviting me to attend functions which I know I should hate. One of these arrived the other day, suggesting that I should stump up fifty pounds for a ticket to a Spring Ball (Black Tie, Dancing to Big Band and Disco, Champagne Reception, Carriages at 12.30, you know the sort of thing). If this were not repellent enough, it seems that the purpose of the event is to raise funds for a rugby tour of New Zealand, than which there is no cause less dear to my heart.
So, even if the organisers had thought of providing some information about the venue (Murrayfield Stadium? Grand Hotel, Torquay? Brent Cross Shopping Centre?), this is an opportunity I shall not fail to miss.
*P G Wodehouse described this kind of thing: "Time had robbed him of the hair on his head and given him in niggardly exchange a large pink wart on the side of his nose".