SB kicked off the Birmingham University French department reunion by suggesting that we read the “confessions” from last time. She actually meant the comments on the 2006 evaluation sheets, which she passed around the table. Personally I would have preferred to have seen the data aggregated and anonymised. This would have spared my feelings when I recognised the handwriting of my friend HJ and saw her highly critical comments. HJ herself blushed bright red when she clocked that I now knew how much she had loathed the industrial panel in the afternoon.

As soon as the meeting was over we were free to go to the disco. I was looking forward to meeting TPR there. However, the first person that I came across was a tiny skinny girl standing next to the fairground carousel. Although she recognised me from the Manor House, I had no idea who she was, even after she told me that her name was Teddy and that she had built a career selling moleskin trousers. I wasn’t interested. Where was TPR?

I checked the tunnel for him, then the club. The bouncers had no information to help me. By now it looked like the party was coming to an end. Even the band members had packed up and were making moves to leave.

My only hope now was to attempt to call TPR on his work mobile. If I was really lucky, he might have it switched on. I rummaged in my rucksack, found my green handbag, and pulled out my Blackberry to make the call. He answered!

It was hard work, but when I said that I could see cyclists jumping into the canal strapped to kayaks for underwater racing, TPR was finally persuaded to come and join me.