Romana left my office carrying three enormous sheets of flipchart paper covered in red writing. My message “Your dissertation won’t write itself” buzzed through her brain. Earlier in the day she had arrived with a stack of empirical data, an elderly literature review, and only limited insight into what all this might mean when tied together. Thankfully, and with an afternoon of my help, she now felt ready to write everything up. It wasn’t a moment too soon: the deadline loomed large on Friday.

Two days later, however, the final draft of the work had not yet appeared for review. I hunted Romana down at her hall of residence. She stayed at the Manor House, at the University of Birmingham, where I had also once studied. It was mid-morning when I pushed open her door, and there she was, lounging in bed, watching daytime television. There was no sign of the dissertation. Now I knew the reason why Romana worked at such a slow pace. She grumpily assured me that her work was almost finished and then promptly dismissed me.

On Friday, as we were driving north to Edinburgh in my mother’s silver mark 2 Granada, I enquired after the dissertation again. Apparently there was a copy for me on the back seat of the car. Romana claimed that she didn’t realise that she had to submit it to KT in the School Office. We found a post office off the A38 and the dissertation was duly despatched.