#horror

So the school reunion is drawing near.

In fact it's next weekend.

The night of Election Day.

Oh Joy.

A bunch of 40+, presumably overweight, presumably successful men who haven't seen each other for 25 years, all talking politics.

I predict there will be the usual mix of what @mother_dearest calls 'armchair socialists', the odd green, and a very capital L liberal sprinkling of successful business types, with overprivileged backgrounds and a sense of entitlement.

My political conversation topics will be limited to Marriage Equality and how elegant are both Marie Bashir and Quentin Bryce.

Of course some of them have seen each other since leaving school.

There have been numerous reunions, and many of the Old Boys, as they so quaintly call themselves, have retained solid friendships, even marrying each other's sisters and now sending their children to the same schools, and sitting on various Foundation Committees.

I have maintained, and regained, good friendships with about half a dozen old school mates, and am in fact extremely close with two of them.

@little_jewish_boy who I have known since the age of four.

I was best man at his wedding.

He now owns a very successful software company and lives in wedded bliss in the inner west with @alternative_jewish_wife, and @three_little_princesses.

He is coming with me.

Partners and wives not invited.

Thank God.

I'd have had to invite @cute_cousin along to pretend.  

The other is @trust_fund_kid, aka @denoodle, who is somewhat of an Instagram celebrity.

Needless to say, he is not coming.

I expressed my disappointment at this to @little_jewish_boy, who quite rightly declared: "If he did come he would be the only 43 year old Bondi hipster in the room, and I don't think he'd have much in common with the other guys".

Indeed.

At least I would have some moral support.

I had, though, seen a large group of my alumni 15 years ago.

At the ten year reunion.

I had been a complete nervous wreck in the lead-up but I'd been determined to attend.

So I fortified myself.

With two stiff drinks before arriving.

A full packet of Silk Cut in hand.

A new Armani suit.

And a gram of coke in the inside jacket pocket of said suit.

It was a sit down dinner in the foyer of the school auditorium.

About 120 of the 200 ex-students present.

I had arrived early to give myself some control over who I sat with.

The coke made me loquacious and entertaining.

And also suppressed my appetite quite considerably.

I barely touched my food.

Fuelling rumours that my quite substantial weight loss since school days somehow had something do with an eating disorder.

I was OK with that.

Between main course and dessert I felt the coke wearing off, and with it my confidence, and much of my interest in anything anybody else had to say.

So I excused myself and headed to the loo, the door to which was in full view of the entire party.

I took myself to a vacant cubicle, and cut myself a line the size of a tampon.

I rolled up a fifty and with one almighty hoovering gesture, shoved the lot up one nostril.

Ah.

Heaven.

Until I heard from a neighbouring cubicle: "Oh yeah, snort that cocaine."

Followed by a snigger.

And I am sure a disapproving shake of the head.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What do I do?

Do I race out really quickly, risking a possible face to face encounter with the witness, thereby eradicating all hope of not being identified as the phantom snorter.

Or do I stay here for a few minutes longer, and hope that there will be enough to-ing and fro-ing from the loos, that I will be able to slip out incognito, the puzzle going unsolved.

I went for option B.

Stood there for what seemed an eternity.

Apart from the sound of the door as my accuser left, not a single other soul used the loo.

I was then worried that if it was noted that I'd been in there for such a long time that perhaps somebody would think I'd been in there for ages doing a massive shit.

I think the shame of that would have been even worse. 

So i decided that so much time had passed that my cubicle-neighbour would have gone back to his table and forgotten all about it.

And that it was therefore safe to exit.

I was very sadly mistaken.

As soon as I made my re-entry to the party, a round of applause erupted, many of the diners wiping their noses in exaggerated gestures, and making very loud sniffing noises.

There were chortles, there were disapproving shakes of the heads and a few bemused guys who had the decency to cast their eyes downwards as I passed.

Luckily for me, the geeks at the table at which I was seated, were looking around in bewilderment, genuinely not knowing what had transpired.

This brought me some relief, however, did little to lessen the extreme redness of face that I could feel.

So on the pretence of having a cigarette, I left the table, and exited to the playground, with drink in hand as a sign that I would return.

But as soon as I'd reached a dark corner, I gently put down the glass and quietly slipped away.


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