ACROSS the crowded dance floor I spotted him. He looked no different. His mouse-brown hair still flopped over his eyes, his shirt was much like the colour of our old school uniform, his sense of rhythm was still, shall we say, unusual.

"Philip Jackson!" I shouted, above the boom of the disco. "Remember me?"

He slithered over, gave me a swashbuckling, Errol Flynn-style kiss and said: "No."

"Jacqui Bealing," I said, pointing to my name badge. "You chased me around for two months when were in the fourth year."

"Did I?" he said, attempting to lead me through a few Ce Roc manoeuvres.

"How could you forget?" I said, as he swung me out like a yo-yo and yanked me back in. "You kept asking if you could walk me home after double maths. And I kept refusing."

He shrugged and grinned but I could see there wasn't a glimmer of recognition. Then he noticed the ring on my wedding finger.

"You're married," he said, dropping my hand instantly. "There's not much point in dancing with you."

And right there and then, he dumped me.

Yes, I was at our old school reunion, struggling to have conversations with people about our classroom days of 20 years ago and realising that we'd largely lost what little we had in common. Besides that, we all had different memories of the way we were, no matter what Barbara Streisand says.

I can forgive Phillip for not remembering me. Perhaps the episode of unrequited love had been so traumatic for him that he has eradicated it from his brain. Or perhaps he did remember and was getting his own back by leaving me partnerless on the dance floor.

But then I had a conversation with another old school chum who swears we bumped into each other ten years ago. And this time it was me who denied it.

"You told me you were in journalism," said Ross, who used to be in my maths class.

"And you had a terrible haircut, very unflattering. You looked like a monster."

You're right. I was a journalist by then," I said, searching the corner of my mind for memories of this meeting. "But I think you're mistaken over the hair cut."

"No, really. It was horrible," he insisted. "I would have said something at the time, only you were with some big ugly bloke whom I think you said was your boyfriend."

"Thanks for the insult," I said. "But I think it's far more insulting that I actually don't remember this conversation."

And so the evening continued, with people ripping off the shackles of the past and speaking their minds. Old grievances were aired, old desires were brought into the open. Ross even got to kiss the girl he'd lusted after for seven years at school and was relieved to discover that she didn't actually turn him on any more. He didn't like her hair either.

Now I know why they say you should never go back. You'll end up wondering if you were every really there in the first place

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.