IT’S been a week of extremes – on Wednesday for instance, I met up with an old school friend I last saw 20 years ago, and probably now won’t see for 20 more. Why? Well, because over the course of the evening, every time I’d mention so-and-so or what’s-his-chops, he’d fill in the blanks.

“How’s Biff?” (a genuine idiot) I’d ask.

“Didn’t you hear,” he’d say. “He floated his IT firm a few years back and is now worth a mint...”

“And Scooter?” (another no-hoper) I continued.

“Married well. Runs a consultancy. Drives an Aston Martin.”

“And Mary-Jean?” (dim but leggy) I pressed. “She was bound for the skids surely?”

“Nope. Investment banker. Based in New York. Pads in London and Frankfurt. Big triathlete.”

And so on.

God, it was sickening.

Practically every person from my class (I attended a huge comprehensive) was now either a millionaire, a managing director, an Olympian athlete or just someone now enjoying their new Canadian/American/ Australian citizenship.

And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. Every true-life tale of success felt like a knife pricking my groin. And all that night, laying awake, I had time to wonder why I still rented (that, of course, was the other thing – all their homes/cottages/period properties/penthouses etc came with gyms, saunas, and private security).

A lesser soul might have spent the night coiled up, writhing in bitterness, but not me.

No sireee, the anti-depressants took care of that...

On a more fruitful note, the week began and I hardly noticed.

You see last Friday, May Morning, I helped launch a new Morris dancing group in the city (called Clockwork Morris; we’re a smart, hip, sassy take on traditional Morris groups, available for college balls, weddings and bar mitzvahs).

And boy was it a wake-up call.

Since January, the four of us (Tim, Ed, Marc and I – pictured right, with our coach Gerard Robinson) have diligently rehearsed, practised and sweated as every friend and work colleague did their utmost to shame and humiliate our dream.

We were fledgling Morris Men and, as such, fair game. But we did at least have some friends – members of Oxford City Morris Men, in fact, who, without prejudice or suspicion, took us under their wing and like Luke in Star Wars, taught us to feel ‘the Force’. And what a ‘Force’ it proved to be.

If I’m honest, when the idea occured to us back in January, I guess it was regarded as a ‘lark’ – something to see us through the dark months of winter; something offbeat, something kooky, something... subversive.

But by February it was clear we were serious – which is what we stayed, right up until 6.47am last Friday when we were introduced to May Morning’s huge and terrifying crowds.

At 6.46am, we shared stomach cramps, dry mouths and shaky hands; by 6.52am, we felt like Clint Eastwood (albeit with bells on).

It was astonishing – one of the best (and proudest) moments of my life, and doubtless I’d have stayed afloat all week had it not been for the ghost of classrooms past.

So be warned. Steer clear of old friends and stick instead to groups of men carrying sticks and wearing bowler hats.

After all, Morris IS the new black.