The proverbial wind has been well and truly taken out of my ageing and flapping sails. I am recovering from a message in my e-mail inbox which begins 'Dear Paul, It has been a mere 30 years, I believe'.

I simply cannot believe it, and I am wholly convinced that while I remember that former pupil with great affection, he, who is about to celebrate his 50th birthday this year, must be suffering from memory loss, as the kindness that he bestows on his now-decaying preceptor of yesteryear is richly undeserved. I am, as you can probably tell, moved beyond words. So there won't be many tonight, and I hope you'll forgive me: I have a bit of catching up to do.

But I will just tell you that Mr Bryan lost me in a sea of classical erudition when he signed off just now, as a resident had asked him all about dice. I tried to follow his wonderful response, and then, thinking that I was well and truly out of my depth, thought I would change the subject to things oenological. I was further submerged under a vat of Gevrey-Chambertin. Metaphorically speaking, unfortunately.

And I'm so sorry I said that Gute Nacht was a liede by Schumann: of course it was Schubert. What must you think of me.