Somewhere around three in the morning two fine young gentlemen decided it would be a lark to pull out the mooring pins and shove my boat out into the middle of the river.
It is lucky I was out of town. They would not have enjoyed making my acquaintance in those circumstances.
In the absence of my ferocity some boat friends scared them off and pulled the boat back to shore, for which I am eternally thankful.
I was slamming the mooring pins into beds of nettles this evening when Gordon called to see if I have truly been regressing in my phone skills. The answer is yes, though I did talk to him for fifty-eight minutes and forty-two seconds, during which I failed to Ladychat but did manage to Share and Relate.
Or at least, I confided I know, this might shock you…. but…. I kind of hate Cambridge!
He replied No, really? Then he asked if I had worn gloves for the nettle part of the evening.
Who, me? No. I was entirely truthful about the anger I feel tonight, with stinging fingers and favors owed.
Though the main point is the fact that Cambridge is not a neutral place – for every woeful low there is an incredible high, whether that is watching the moorchicks paddling around in Jesus Ditch or joining in the raging debates that erupt during dinner parties.
Right now I can’t imagine living anywhere else, which is useful, given that I am stuck for the next little while.