The email came out of the blue on a dreary Monday night.
It had been twenty years or so since we’d last communicated.
After university he’d gone on to practice law, becoming a top city barrister, while I’d frittered and partied away my twenties, eventually stumbling into schoolteaching.
“Retired at 58!” I thought, contemplating the uninviting prospect of toiling at the chalkface until 65.
“Though I might consider some consulting work if so inclined,” he’d added.
Yet, glad to be back in contact I sent off my congratulations, pondering an evening of marking homework and self-recriminations.