Where are they now, these young men of old? We came together at the end of 1942, unscathed by the wartime destruction. We came from families that represented a wide spectrum of Maltese society from distant villages and nearby towns. Rich and poor held no distinction. We laboured on common ground until 1947.

The Lyceum class of 1947 had imbibed the knowledge of their mentors. Our schoolmasters gave us their best, so they thought. They held no ill-feelings for being branded with nicknames, which were not so complimentary. They rose in anger at our pranks. The resonance of their vibrating voices circled the room commanding shortlived silence.

Unable to cope, they resorted to the ‘black book’ to instil discipline. They smiled on jokes and clowns; looked benignly on bookworms and workaholics; they sneered on latecomers, carelessness and those who shirked work.

Some of us had double-barrelled surnames, others foreign names, predominantly English or Italian. I recall one signifying a horse but he was a chubby fellow with a perpetual smile on his face.

The three clergymen were not so holy in class: the teachers were out for retaliatory punishment of what they had done, the architects had been sloppy and illegible in drafting their written assignments. Therefore that class produced a group that seemed to end up as misfits of society, judged by their performance in class.

My personal surprise was that presumably we all did well in life. Our choice of Latin studies must have worked magic.

Where are these octogenarians? Have they sunk into active ageing pandering to their wives helping in the kitchen? Are they still healthy enough to go fishing or to play billiards or golf?

Are they still intellectually stimulated reading or writing books on computers? Or has longevity put them to sleep the sleep of the brave, a heavenly reward for being the crème de la crème.