… isn’t what it sounds like.

Last night we went into London to meet old friends from university days. It was the thirtieth anniversray of my graduation and a few of us from the University of Bradford Modern Languages department got together for a curry. We got plates and forks and serviettes – which is totally different from what we used to get in the great Bradford curry houses of our youth. But, then again, we are older and more sophisticated now…

What was surprising was how everyone was still recognisable after all these years. Voices and mannerisms are the same. Haircuts have changed – or, in my case, disappeared. But it was funny to realise that the people I thought were über-confident at university were actually wracked with the same insecurities as me. People I thought were the life and soul of the student party also experienced loneliness and all the other stuff that makes us human.

What was really nice, though, was coming away thinking what nice and interesting people they are and how the evening was simply too short to catch up on thirty years.

What was funny was the reminiscences and memories, particularly of times spent working in industry in various parts of Germany and France. And that’s where the title comes in. While I was languishing in isolation and depression in one part of Germany (and, later, Paris), they all seem to have been meeting up and living it up in Munich. I can’t remember now what the story was about dancing in Dachau ( a suburb of Munich) – other than that it would make a great title for a novel – but it was great fun catching up and re-living the past.

While they were dancing in Dachau, I think I was probably reading a book and feeling miserable in Schwäbisch Gmünd. They got the better deal, I think.