The War On Error Rages On (My Alma Mater)

I kind of thought a grammar school could get through a piece of correspondence sans grammatical clangers—but, hey, maybe I’m just old-fashioned.

Pass on this invitation to other old boys who haven’t heard of it, or we may of lost.

The above snippet is from the invitation to my old school’s five-year reunion. The event itself transpired largely as predicted: there was a vegetarian option that apparently had a strangely high chicken-quotient; a head of year ­­still unsure of exactly who the fuck I was; a bottleneck (ha—­­pun) at the bar as everyone sought out social lubrication for the inevitable small-talk circle-jerks they’d find themselves engaged in.

When we were booted out at the end of the function, Mr. Ziebell and I, full of school spirit and Victoria Bitter, found ourselves at the local underage dive. At about five AM I discovered that I’d come home and dozed off on top of my doona, with the lights still on, completely naked. Viriliter Agite indeed.

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