I think the strangest things sometimes. In the middle of some situation or other, I'll let my brain pull away — I call it "being up in my head," but real professional mucky-mucks insist it's "dissociating." Once there, I'm no longer actually paying attention. Whatever's being said comes at me in little snatches, bits that the teeny part of me that has remained focused evidently finds interesting. The rest of me, though, is zoned out, and usually thinking something mighty bizarre.

When my stepfather was ranting at me, I'd go up in my head and think about how much time was passing. I'd picture the seconds clicking by on my old Timex — the first grownup watch I ever had, which Dad smashed when I was 10 and came in late from playing. I'd imagine all these minutes of being yelled at just adding up, and then I'd start trying to figure out just how many minutes had transpired over the course of every one of his tirades, and how much of my life that must be. Inevitably, I decided I better come back and see if he was saying anything I ought to hear, or waiting for me to reply to something. But directly before that, I usually thought the strangest thought of all: "One day, this will all be over, and you'll look back on it, and you'll think 'Thank god that's over.' And you'll remember how awful it was, and how long-winded he was. And you won't ever forget it, because if you did, then enjoying that it was over wouldn't be something you deserved."

I did that at The School, too. I think I did it more there than with Dad.

I'm reminded of it now because last night I caught the tail bit of The Lost Boys on Premium Pay Channel. You're thinking, "What the hell does a bad Kiefer Sutherland 80s movie have to do with neurotic little you, Gage?!" I'll explain...

At the very end of the closing credits, an old John&Taupin number, "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," plays. Now, the late Freddie Mercury (Queen) performs the version in the movie, but I know that a few years later, Elton John and George Michael dueted the tune. I also remember that in 1987-88, George-y boy experienced loads of playlist success with an album called "Faith," I believe. Whatever it was called, that's not mega-important. What is important is that he had an album that was hot the year I was at The School. And our dormheads played that damn record (okay, it was a tape) practically every time we had chores.

Chores. I remember a mid-morning in May. Not unlike this morning, with a few too many bees bumbling around, and a bit too much sun for my taste, but nevertheless one of the last Fine Spring Days before June's pre-summer angst comes and ruins everything. I'm standing outside, wearing that white cotton dress that Lara gave me because I have too many black clothes, and we aren't allowed to wear black. On the cobbles at my feet are two threadbare Oriental silk rugs. Not rugs, really, more like runners as they are from the hallway. I've a third rug in my hand and I'm halfheartedly smacking the dust out of it against the low stone wall of the patio. The windows behind me stand open, and I hear The Kids milling about within the building, a vacuum cleaner grumbling, a screech as furniture is shoved across the marble floor. Above it all, blaring and grating on my nerves with its 2nd broadcast of the morning is George Michael's current album. Yes, we're cleaning. Of course we are, it's 11 AM on a weekday. What else would we be doing?

I give the rug a good thwack, drop it and fetch the next. As I do, I think one of those thoughts. "One day, I'll be far from this place, and when I am, I'll think, 'Thank god that's over.' But I'll never forget that I was here, because if I did, I wouldn't deserve the enjoyment of being free." By now, I'm used to such things popping into my head, and this thought doesn't concern me any more than it normally would. But my mind continues, you see. For the first time, and not the last, mind you, I think this amended bit: "I'll save this moment for me alone, for always. By myself, beating a rug, and cursing George Michael: The epitome of my School experience. I won't share this, or any of my secret thoughts, with Them because They wouldn't understand."

The Lost Boys to "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" to George Michael to a day on a patio 9 years ago. How lovely the contents of my mind are cross-referenced. Little italicised "see also" notes at the bottom of each memoury, that, at a glance, autoflip to the correct related mental entry.

I think I think too much. Bummer.