I was making my way through Bexley village yesterday and stopped to look through the window of the barbers. I could do with a trim but wanted to first make sure the people doing the cutting were not of the trainee variety and still in the process of learning their trade. I realise everyone has got to start somewhere, but there's not a chance in hell that I will let just anyone near my snowy white beard.

As I watched with interest, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and someone say, 'Hello. Erastus, isn't it?'. As you know, Your Lord has made a few enemies as well as friends over the couple of years he has been sharing his knowledge and offering advice to those readers who are unable to think for themselves. With this in mind, I turned slowly around to face whatever I had coming to me. 'Erastus is my name, sir', I replied to the gentleman. 'I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you'. At least, I hope I didn't because if there's one thing I can't stand it's being stopped in the street by people wanting a 'chat'.

It turned out the man was the same age as myself and that we had attended the same school at the same time, though not in the same class. He went on to bore me rigid for the next 20 minutes or so as he described people I have long forgotten or never wanted to know in the first place. I have a very good brain when it comes to erasing the memory of those I find tedious and can very quickly forget someone who doesn't come up to my very high standards.

After listening to this bore going on and on about every Tom, Dick and Harry who attended our old school, he then played his ace by inviting me to a school reunion, which will take place in a couple of months' time. The thought of seeing the aged, craggy faces of idiots whom I absolutely loathed at the time but had to endure for five long, tedious years, made my heart drop faster than a tuppence ha'penny whore's bloomers. But, because I am a gentleman of good breeding, I did the only decent thing possible; I lied through my teeth by informing this old 'acquaintance' that I would be away at the time of the party. With a rather dour expression, the man - who I think used to wet his trousers when were at school - left me with, 'Oh well, maybe next year. Hope to see you again.'

I will make damn sure this person never, ever sees me again and will be keeping my eye out for him, you can be sure of that. The years have not been kind to him and not only has he an atrocious grey comb over - that when unfurled must be at least twelve inches in length - but also has an annoying habit of saying, 'you know' after every sentence. 'Bill Smith's dead, you know', 'Betty married Fred, you know', 'Tom Tatler's now a woman, you know'. I felt like saying, 'Your breath smells like something has crawled down your throat, had a crap and then died - you know!'.

So, I will most certainly not be reuniting with faces from the past. One of the best things about leaving an institution, particularly school, is that you never have to see the likes of Mr Combover ever again. That's the way I like it and that's the way it's going to stay, you know.

Erastus