We were working through archives of exam questions, extracting any that could be recycled for the next academic year. My collection was so old that it included questions on medieval French literature from my own undergraduate days.

My colleagues started getting restless and I wondered how much further we would get through the job before heading home for the day. Then I looked at the clock: it was 7pm. I was obliged to let the others go, but decided to stay on for another half hour or so myself.

At 10pm I was still on campus, and also had some more work to do 12 miles up the road at my other office. I set off west on foot, accompanied by a young woman who approached me for relationship advice. Her question (which I was unqualified to answer) concerned her school librarian partner who was having doubts about her sexuality. “Hormone treatment?” I suggested haphazardly as we marched along the busy main road, careful to jump into the verge every time a heavy lorry thundered by.

Half-way along the route I acquired a heavy Jacobean trunk. I carried it as best I could. Although I was grateful for my recent training regime, I still struggled with the weight. It was also rather difficult to see around such a bulky item of furniture. I nearly stumbled into a shimmering blue Maserati as I walked up a tiny lane of one of the villages en route.

By now it was almost midnight, I was still miles from my destination, and I had not yet contacted TPR to tell him when I would be home. I called him from my old mobile phone (I was saving the charge in my iPhone for emergencies) and confessed that I would not be back for a long time yet. He was resigned to my absence. At least he had my sister S for company until I finally returned to the flat.