The final farewell tour

The ensuing Summer was the longest 'farewell tour' on record.  As I said - send off after send off.  There must have been some part time jobs thrown in there but the send-offs were the focus of all available attention (my friends and I were the doyens of the Little Chef and Asda, on-and-off throughout our late teens - apart from S who found cleaning the milkshake machine so nauseating he didn't last the evening shift).

I'd also, of course, completed two major music exams, an "S" Level and achieved relative greatness in my "A" Levels.  The landmarks were coming along thick and fast.  I took my first overseas holiday that involved flying rather than a long ferry journey - Ibiza with E and her family.  I have two abiding memories of that trip.  Firstly - the fact that I was, in fact, quite subdued.   I was criticised quite heavily by E for being quiet - she'd had me invited as company - not as a mute.  Secondly - when I did finally break my silence it was to have an all-out row about the merits, or not, of musical improvisation over mastering the masters!  And thirdly - yes, thirdly - my first taste of sunstroke.  What fun.  It really was one of the best Summer holidays I'd ever had.

There was also, of course, a lot of drinking.  And curry-eating it seemed.  Everyone, all of a sudden, was into curry.  Eating at the High Street Curry House through to making one's own during the day with ingredients bought afresh (my parents kitchen was far from equipped for such things).

Everything was done as a group.  No evening or event could be conducted without an enormous round of decision-making phone calls followed by an assemblage of twenty or so.  And we weren't even the cool kids - goodness knows what organisational feats were required for the popular ones.  A notable excursion was a Rocky Horror escapade to London - notable for the lasagne I made before departing, followed by bumping into my piano teacher at the train station in full drag, followed by, somehow, being accompanied by someone from work who arrived fantastically drunk and who heckled in a variety of un-prescribed ways throughout.  He wasn't the individual from those holiday jobs who I remember best - I remember a slightly older, reddiesh-haired chap who I spent the afternoon cleaning a walk-in fridge with, signing tunes from "Blues in the Night" as we did so.  He leant me a video of the making of Les Miz.   Hhhmmm.

The dramas seemed to be over.  We were too old for the 'who's friends with who' debates.  There was no time left for brooding over which parties you were invited to and which you weren't.  There was too much water under the bridge for all these people of such an advanced age to begrudge perceived or actual slights.  It was all over.  This was just the rapturous, albeit brief, encore.

Before you knew it you were being dumped in a Halls of Residence on the south coast by a father who was quick to say that your room wasn't as nice as your brothers' and that he'd be off now.

You're not leaving me here!!