A visit to Cambridge. Graduation first exiled me from the place; then, once I had regained a foothold, romantic disaster. Long story. This time I have a gig, interviewing the excellent writer, poet and translator Will Stone about Stefan Zweig for the Cambridge Literary Festival.
The gig is at an ungodly hour: 11.30 on a Sunday. I know what I’m like on a Sunday morning – not necessarily the sharpest – so I decide that the best way to be rested for it is to go up the previous night, and I ask one of the dons, still there, who once tried to teach me, if he can book a guest room for the Saturday. That way I can get the hell out of Dodge City (meaning the Hovel) and, at the same time, with something to do, get over my sadness at saying goodbye to the daughter, who has been staying for a couple of days over the Easter hols. I always get depressed when any of my children leaves.
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