It was as if we were in the middle of a script of a Richard Curtis film, where all the female characters were in love with the same man. I belted one of the other girls with my handbag when I realised that she was my love rival.

The main focus of the plot, however, was my best undergraduate student. He had survived a crushing at a London football match (the medical bill would have been £14 million) but occasionally took a fit. This time he fell ill on a train journey just as we came into King’s Cross station.

We all sprung into action as soon as the train came to a halt. We carried my student’s arching body down to the tube and on to the hospital at Bedford Square as fast as possible.