Have you ever spotted someone your own age and caught yourself thinking,
“Blimey, surely I don’t look *that* old… do I?”
Let me share a tale about my friend:
—
My name is Emma. I was waiting at the bus stop in Manchester, tapping my foot impatiently, when the bus finally rolled up. As I stepped on, I glimpsed the driver’s ID badge. His full name was printed there—Thomas Whitmore. Something about it tugged at my memory.
Then it hit me. A lanky, dark-haired lad with a crooked grin—the boy I’d fancied rotten back at St. Mary’s Secondary… thirty-five years ago.
My pulse quickened. *Could it really be him?*
But when I studied the driver properly, doubt crept in. The man before me was bald, his temples streaked with silver, lines etched deep around his eyes. His uniform strained slightly at the middle. He looked… well, *old.*
Still, curiosity got the better of me.
“Excuse me,” I ventured, “did you by chance attend St. Mary’s?”
His face lit up. “I did, yes!”
“What year did you leave?”
“1982,” he said, tilting his head. “Why d’you ask?”
Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out: “We were in the same year!”
He squinted at me, silent for a beat.
Then—
This man, with his thinning hair, weary posture, and a belly that spoke of too many pints at the local…
…looked me dead in the eye and said:
“And which teacher were you, miss?”
—
Bloody *hell.*
I’ll tell you this much—I booked a spa day the very next weekend. And I *never* leave the house without mascara now.
—
Gutted, isn’t it?
