‘Let’s get together’: The tricky business of school reunions
Sunday, 26 April 2026
Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.
OPINION: On a shelf, in a cupboard, in a shed, at our house, is an old bottle of wine.
It is covered in cobwebs and a quarter century of neglect.
It contains sauvignon blanc that probably tastes like piss and vinegar by now.
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Its label has an A in a circle that at first glance might suggest it’s an anarchist’s brew.
But it’s actually an A+, denoting an association with academia, rather than flinging molotov cocktails.
It was produced for my college’s centenary in 2000. For a reason I can’t remember, we never got round to opening it, and I eventually came to view it as an artefact rather than something drinkable.
And I certainly can’t explain why I’ve kept it as some kind of memento, some sullied souvenir, given that I hated that school reunion.
In fact, I hate all school reunions.
When my primary school marked it’s centenary, it was a weekend of nostalgia, home baking feasts, and sporting fixtures.
As one of the current students, when it came time for the final parade, I was given an honoured job of leading a cohort of former students, holding a white banner with black lettering denoting the decade in which they were at the school.
Oh the pride.
But, somehow, I misunderstood the instructions, and instead of leading my group of previous pupils to the village hall for a celebratory lunch, I led them in a circle, via residential back streets, all the way back to the school.
Oh the shame and chagrin.
Nearly 30 years later, my college announced its centennial celebrations, and the call went out for alumni to congregate.
I was back living in the area at the time, working for the local newspaper, so figured I’d attend, and mix the social with the professional: Have a beer, have a catch up, and then write a small story for the paper about it.
By that stage, my classmates had been out in the world for 20 years - time to take strides in life, but not so many that we didn’t recognise each other.
I remember going along to the Friday night function, walking into the marquee rigged on the college’s front field, and seeing the girl I’d been madly in love with with when I was 11, at intermediate school.
There was also the girl I’d been quite in love with when I was 12.
Oh god, a whole evening of being reminded of unrequited crushes, I thought.
Gradually, former classmates filtered in, and there were handshakes and hamfisted hugs.
And it was nice to see people again, and revive connections lost years ago.
But as the night wore on, the novelty wore off.
Increasingly, it seemed to be a forum for people to compare, to boast, to vaunt their status and situation in life.
The ones who owned businesses versus the ones who’d raised families. The ones who’d travelled far versus the ones who’d stayed home. The ones who’d got degrees versus the ones who’d got trades.
It was an inevitable beauty contest, an unpleasant display of unconscious one-upmanship, an odious dance, pairing life’s champions with the unfulfilled.
Eventually, I escaped, ran into the night, clutching a keepsake bottle of sauvignon blanc, which I could never bring myself to open, lest its bitter notes revived the reunion’s sour taste.
Thus, it languishes in the dark in a cold cupboard.
I could, therefore, have been expected to be cynical about any other reunions, and been excused for running a mile when the idea of a gathering to mark 30 years of our journalism school class was raised.
It was raised by a classmate, Jamie, who I’d kept up with over the years, and who I was reluctant to disappoint. So the thought was passed back and forth and moulded and mused over, until Jamie became moderately exasperated at everyone else’s lack of action, and just set a time and place.
Kelburn pub. Saturday. From 1pm.
It was that simple.
But then again, it wasn’t, because Jamie had to then try to track down everyone and let them know the plan.
From a class of 42, only two eluded his sleuthing - two who had slipped on to an alternative life path without leaving a single social media footprint.
It was a exceptional effort by Jamie, and rewarded by general enthusiasm.
In the end, a dozen made it to the pub.
There was no show boating, no big noting, just predictable amounts of reminiscing and lots of laughs. It was a truly lovely gathering with fabulous people.
A few of us remain in journalism, but most have found complementary careers.
Some are Koru Platinum members, others make pickles and preserves. But nobody saw it as a competition.
We stayed till the pub closed, then said goodbyes on the pavement outside.
I walked home through a dark park, telling myself I really must throw out that wretched old bottle of sauvignon blanc.