The other night I went out with a few friends and a mixed lot of posh young academics. Rachel tried once again to coax stories about the trip out of me, but I didn’t feel like sharing. She wondered aloud why I am such a magnet for trouble, given that I dress like (in her exact words) a boring straight girl.
I thought that it would be obvious that I wear different clothes elsewhere; the outfit for Cambridge is utilitarian and organized to sustain life on a boat. In this town my most ambitious aesthetic challenge is washing the coal smudges off my face after I build a fire.
Though honestly it doesn’t matter. Chaos finds me wherever I have friends. Cambridge is only unique in that there are so few people who fit that description.
Not content to leave the evening without some kind of story, Rachel cleverly asked me to describe my craziest relative. I delivered a long recitation about ravines and revenge, watching as the intensity of the tales made mouths drop open.
It is too bad the best bits can’t be published.