We'll meet again

Maireád was the organiser, but it was Linda who reminded me that our Irish teacher insisted we refer to George Michael as Seoirse Michéal at all times. Pauline remembered a comedy act I used to do that involved me covering my head with my jumper. Another anecdote was about a banana. Between us we remembered everything.

We drank wine and beer - that is to say, the ones who weren't driving or pregnant drank wine and beer. At one point Helen jogged my memory about a trip to the Yorkshire moors, us ducking out of a tour of York Cathedral, running down tiny cobbled side streets so I could pilfer cucumber cleanser from a certain English chain of chemists that hadn't yet made it to Grafton Street. Back then products from this chemist were the holy grail. Cucumber cleanser and Seoirse Michéal. It was all so simple then.

Halfway through the night a woman came up and asked whether we were on a school reunion. The huge school photo in the middle of the table may have given it away. On the day it was taken I remember thinking that I was too cool for school. Reality bites. Going by the photographic evidence presented this evening, I was an unremarkable teenager with some class of a mousy brown quiff hovering above my forehead. That's right, a quiff. (Just one question for my teenage self at this point. Why?)

Amazingly, they all looked exactly the same. Aisling and Sally Anne were still best mates, and so were their two little boys. Most of them had made babies, some of them lived in Australia, others had rubbed professional shoulders with real rock stars. They'd worked in human resources and marketing and in beauty salons. They'd started their own businesses, were lecturing or going back to college for yet more qualifications. But it didn't take much to picture them in red jumpers and grey skirts playing hockey or hoisting books on to tables or eating lunch in the canteen.

Yet while they seemed the same, I thought I looked different. My hair was longer now, freshly straightened in the hairdresser for the occasion. I drew the line at getting my make-up professionally applied. Straight hair would suggest you made an effort; expertly blended eye-shadow smacked of trying too hard. I was carrying much more weight than I did at school, a fact that a head-to-toe black ensemble did nothing to disguise. My black skirt was trimmed with fun fur, a look that said: I may be in my mid-30s, but I'm not quite past it yet, I'll have you know. (Just one question for my thirtysomething self at this point. Just who among them did I think actually cared?) I felt different, too.

Back in the day the coolest girl in school used to make me trip over my words if I was ever lucky enough to fall into conversation with her. Now I chatted to her as an equal, even admitting that I used to admire the way she and her cool companions wore their school socks mid-calf, not quite ankle, not quite to the knee. Of such sartorial know-how are school reputations carved.

The boxes I had put people in - shy girl, swotty girl, popular girl, strange girl - dissolved, and suddenly they were just people you didn't really know from Eve but with whom you shared a history.

They knew what you were talking about when you reminisced about going on retreats in the Happy House. They laughed like anything remembering pranks we played on that substitute teacher. They knew about and spoke fondly of a girl with laughing eyes called Julie who hadn't made it this far. They remembered the late Miss Lavelle with genuine affection. Somebody brought a photograph of her. She looked improbably young. And kind. We still remembered her kindnesses.

Or perhaps I hadn't changed so much. Helen remembered the banana. Our English teacher had said "curved like a banana", at which point my consistently contrary hand shot up. "Not all bananas are curved," I said. "You shouldn't imply that they are." The next day I came into class with a straight banana, to prove my point. In one way or another I've been making the case for unusually shaped bananas ever since.

Before showing up for the reunion I'd met up in another pub with my best friends from school, Mand, Martina and Tanya, because we thought we'd need some Dutch courage. But it was surprisingly easy. I never thought I'd feel so comfortable in a bar where every face reminded me of a time in my life I hated so much that I thought the days would never end. Now I can't wait for the next one. Here's to the class of '89.