I spent almost an entire academic year pining for TPR in a tiny hall of residence room at the University of Birmingham, with only my Mac for company. Permanently logged into e-mail, I lived for his messages from the other side of the world. I was desperate that he would still want me when he returned from Australia.

When my classmate SC (now SL) dragged me out for a “walk” (she on a scooter and me on foot) she pointed out that instead of moping in my room refreshing the screen, I should have been attending classes. By now I had missed every course work assessment and exam. I confessed that I hadn’t even heard of Tante Louise, apparently the main text for the entire course.

SC persuaded me to head up to campus to see if there was a way in which I could put things right. There we were surprised to find SY waiting for the lift up the Muirhead Tower: wasn’t she completing a PhD at Worcester University? And since when had she been wearing her hair in a plait just like mine? Then HW appeared, enquiring about “medical supplies”. I finally realised that this trip was pointless. Why would I need another degree? I already held a BA, MA and PhD, plus a clutch of professional qualifications. This was quite enough.