Unless I was prepared to stay in London forever, I had to chance this last train to Edinburgh. I reasoned that if we reached Newcastle, I could always bail out and stay overnight with my parents. In the event it wasn’t snow, strikes, nor the resulting travel chaos that ruined my journey. Instead it was the idiots who stole my suitcase. Its meagre shell was recovered at Morpeth, completely empty. I guessed that the burglars would get something for my hair straighteners, but my half-written conference paper and the stack of photocopied journal articles were worthless to anyone but me.

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The party was in full swing in the high-ceilinged dining room of the Stockbridge flat. I was itching to join in the fun, but first JW and I had business to discuss. By the time we were ready to party very little food was left, and not a single clean glass could be found in the dining room. I thought about begging a drink from one of the beautiful runway-thin models who were circulating the room, uber-glamorous in a gold satin ballgown. However JW had a better idea. While I munched on a slice of pizza she raided her secret stash of single-person Champagne bottles. We raised a toast from the only clean glassware left in the house: test tubes.