Old rockers roll in for:

Romper class reunion

Gaston de Rosayro

Age 60 has been an awfully big milestone for me. And please leave the room the reader at the back who said: “He celebrated the big Six O at least four years ago” Okay, okay, it isn’t exactly a crime attempting to shave off a few years, especially when I determine my physical age as opposed to the chronological.

The more astute among you would have realized by now that my body when measured by the physical age yardstick makes me a much younger man. Still I’m not a fussbudget about my age. Also I’m not into the occupation of attracting women, because I got mine a long time ago. In addition, I am not the type to begin lusting after my lost youth when mine was spent mostly downing double drams and writing what I like. Two things I’m pretty darn good at, even if I do say so myself. As you can see I am still enjoying this privileged lifestyle while retaining my youthful spirit and debonair air.

But there are times when the shadow of old age can lurk up on you in the manifestation of your decrepit former schoolmates. And before you know it you wonder whether you have been transformed into those mirrored reflections of the golden age of geriatrics. The nightmare began when I received an invitation for, of all events, my kindergarten reunion party. I imagined it would be fun to meet part of the old existing mixed gender playgroup of bobby-soxers and old rockers.

The party was being held in the Oak Bar. Wrong venue, I imagined, as I wandered into it. God, I thought, everyone here is so old! I was about to beat a retreat and look for the right location. Too late, I was being approached by a buxom, old grandmother. Her flaming red hair was partially covered by a sort of turban that might have been considered chic in the seventies. I stood frozen as she came wobbling dangerously towards me on stilt-like stiletto heels and grabbed me in her bosomy embrace. “Dahaling,” she cooed in a raspy voice, “I actually recognized you the moment you walked in. I’m Barbara, the convenor.”

I shook my head, in an attempt to clear the cobwebs in my mind. And then I recalled the pigtailed, gap-toothed girl who had through eons of time turned into a delightfully sociable grande dame. She took my elbow and steered me towards the bar where a gang of decrepit old duffers were nursing their drinks.

Her gold bangles jangled like cymbals as she introduced the old gang. “Here’s Tony, and Ravi and that’s Joe.

I noticed a bald-as-a-billiard ball, beer-bellied bozo waddling in our direction. Barbara grabbed my arm and whispered: “That’s Larry, remember? We used to call him Laryngitis because he was such a pain in the neck. He pretends he doesn’t remember a lot of us. It’s about time someone gave him a dose of his own medicine.”

He lumbered up to the bar crowing out his own accolade: “I am a company Director. I married a veterinarian.” Tony the wag gave him a dirty look followed by his scathing riposte: “Good for you.

Does she practice animal husbandry?” Baldy had his comeuppance: He turned to Barbara and smiling broadly tried to make amends with the query. “Why, you are Barbara. You were in my kindergarten class.”

Barbara gave him a withering stare. She questioned: “Which year was that?” He thought for a while and said: “In 1952 or so.” She looked at him closely and asked:

“What did you teach?’