It’s far easier to accept that the world is totally wired but completely disconnected than it is to rail against the failure of personal history and the loss of community.

Why then do we see and acquiesce to an alarming internet-driven proliferation of the most bizarre (and desperately sad) pieces of social engineering  – the school reunion ?

My partner has thankfully resisted the persistent badgering of a couple of former classmates to attend their class’ 30 year re-union.  What a relief to see the date pass.  We discussed it and she found my experience decisive.

Much water had passed under the bridge when I foolishly decided to give in and attend my class’ 16 year reunion.  I had no idea who organised it, but I wanted to find out what the hell had happened to the old crew – not one of whom had I been in contact with since first year uni.

It was a westy boys’ high and in those days the only ones who went to Uni were the few scholarship winners – five out of fifty; no two studied in the same faculty.  So we were a disconnected lot.

The reunion was in a local riverside park where a lot of the teenage pregnancies were launched – in collaboration with the girls’ school (across the road), of course.  I imagined that it would be a good idea to leave my “born and raised elsewhere” missus at home because there can be nothing more boring than playing “do you remember so-and-so” when you weren’t even there.  I also left the good car at home – just in case -because I didn’t want to look like one of those ponces who wants to show off his humongous wealth – which would have added “lying with intent to impress” to the charge sheet.  But outward display of wealth proved to be a relative thing, itself a concern amongst very few of our school.

Both of these ideas (leaving the good car and the missus at home) proved to be good moves.  When I got to the event there were maybe four score and ten adults and about ten score and four children.  As one half of a childless couple at that stage, I was appalled by the noise and inconvenience of this swarm of snotty urchins, hell-bent on trashing any opportunity for adults to chew the fat.

So many of the old crew were unrecognisable.  White hair.  No hair.  Beards somewhat like the Hell’s Angles.  Tatts.  And partners who looked like they had come straight off the Dogger Bank.  Think fishwives.  Think voices like a chainsaw cutting corrugated iron.  Think conversation about what was on the menu at the club (reassuring that the prawn cocktails in pink sauce and steak and chips were still mainstays, chicken Maryland had been replaced by the exotic excitement of chicken Marengo, and sweet and sour whatever, was still the mystery dish).  Expansive ?  No, not really.  I imagined Gibbo (the world’s best English Teacher and a lapsed Jesuit to boot) crying into his port over the fate of his “sons”.

“Holy shit !  It’s YOU, Fitzy !”  “Who’s asking ?”  I remembered Fitzgerald as having what Goose described as a “bum cut”  – meaning that it was parted in the middle and stood up, forming a rounded letter “M” in cross section.  It was auburn.  Back then.  It was short, spiky and grey, 16 years later.  “So what are you up to these days ?”  Storeman and packer.  “What about you ?”  “Computer stuff”.  “Good job ?”  “Yeah, not too bad”.

But seeing that the state of play amongst our school cohort was as it had been – but with wrinkles, massive weight gain and adverse changes to hair and economic well-being, was to miss the fact that a lot of water had gone under many many bridges.  It was a mistake, for example to assume that the fishwife and screaming brats that Turner showed up with was the same set that he pulled together just out of school.

I guess the thing that hit me the hardest was learning that Nokka was dead.  The scuttlebutt was that our best and brightest – by a long shot – had died in mysterious circumstances during second year at uni.  There was unsubstantiated talk about doing hard drugs.  I think this was way out of character since Nokka was very conservative about substance abuse – a perspective shaped by an abusive alcoholic father.  And there was a competing (and far more likely) story about a heart attack.  Either way, it doesn’t do a lot of good for morale to learn that the guy most likely to drag himself out of working class poverty hadn’t made it past go; hadn’t collected $200.

And Toombsie.  A tall gangly red head, Toombsie was all knees and no co-ordination.  The nicest bloke, he was a good mate – hilarious, generous and loyal.  A keen but hopeless sportsman.  Died in a car accident on the Henderson Rd.  Aged 20, two years out of school.

After an hour or so of embarrassed and halting attempts to fill in sixteen years of blanks, we drifted off, taking a leisurely and sad stroll along the river for a bit, looking mostly at our shoes and avoiding the conclusion that the aspirations of our school years for many of us were largely unfulfilled.

Listening to the thunking of car boots.  Promising to stay in touch.  Climbing into the car and driving off.  Not looking back.

“How was it ?”  “It was OK”.  “Really ?”  “No, it was shit.  I need a cuddle”.