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It’s just a gathering of middle aged people at a bowling club near where I grew up. Woy Woy High Year 10 class of 1977. Such as is left of us.

It’s not like we have much in common after forty years. Just a few shared memories. Like that one. And … er … that one. Maybe I should check with survivors and make sure everyone’s keeping quiet. We may not have much to talk about but we’ve got plenty to not talk about.

Turns out a surprising number of us are still alive. I knew we should have started a teenage death cult. They were  fashionable then. I wonder what we’ll discuss while avoiding less savoury topics. Maybe I should walk in stoned, get drunk as fast as I can then get into a fight. Wouldn’t be a Woy Woy High reunion otherwise. Or I could try doing something I risk remembering.

What if someone asks me what I’ve been doing for the last forty years?

Should I ask them which day they mean?

Or should I admit I have no wife, no children, no house and no car. No career, no title, no footie team, no political party, no religion, no cause, no dreams. No projects, no clubs, no diet, health or fitness miracle, no portfolio, no milestones, no favorite cafe, no shed, no status. No Facebook friends.

It’s probably fair to say that since leaving school I’ve achieved nothing at all. I didn’t do the homework.

From → autobiography

  1. uncaged permalink

    But you can write and philosophize with the best of them.


  2. You can’t understand.
    We Woy Woy kids were forged into a communal organism by virtue of being The Tragic Example in all broader social interactions. We were a Village of the Patronised.

    When we gather together our communication and philosophising converge on a sort of hive mindlessness that is the true basis of our being. It comes out as a sort of drunken burbling about football and sex and cars and bands.


  3. It’s a hell of an achievement, to achieve nothing at all.


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