So it was true. Claysie really was now Lord Claymore. But he looked so distant, as though he had undergone some transformation.
Without warning, a strange faraway look came into Lord Claymore's eyes. He was being transported through time, borne along on a sea of memories. I tried to regain his attention.
"Claysie! Wake up up man, what's the matter?" No response.
I reflected upon the strange chain of events that led him from being the Principal Race Officer of a CCC bash, to acquiring the title of Lord Claymore, as well as the draughty castle and the remaining lands of Clan Claymore.
He was remembered as a happy and contented young man, the life and soul of the Senior Common Room of a leading centre of academic excellence in the North of England. Unfazed by faddish and fanciful modes of fashion he was a memorable figure, even in the so-called Swinging Sixties.
Somehow, I knew I had to break his reverie.
"Pssstt!", I hissed in his ear.
He looked down; "Och, I know, I know, I've done it again. I chust cannot help it all, at all."
To be continued