This morning I set out for my office just after seven. This is late by my standards, but it is Sunday even for me. On the way to the university I saw an unusual number of people in their early twenties going the other way. But how they looked! Men were in tuxedoes or dark suits, and women wore elaborate evening gowns. Sensibly, most women carried their shoes in their hands. They were all unsteady on their feet, but they invariably smiled blissfully as they saw me marching in the opposite direction. The party must have been good. And big. On Redlands Road a young man in a tuxedo waved at me. I waved back and kept my pace. “Bon,” he yelled across the street, “Ranko Bon.” I stopped. “International construction,” he grinned and planted his feet wide for balance. I walked across the street. “You were just great,” he said. “You and … Roger Flanagan.” I shook his hand, “Honest,” he continued, “I enjoyed those lectures very much.” I thanked him and asked about the party. “Ah, the Summer Ball,” he smiled. The Student Union at the university, as it turned out. “But those lectures I will never forget,” he returned to his praise of my prowess. As we were waving each other goodbye, he drove the point home: “I am not bullshitting you, Ranko!” “Many thanks,” I yelled back. A good thing to hear so close to retirement.