The Porterhouse Blues

I'm in Cambridge in a Subway joint, waiting for my friend, Helen. We're going to a quiz in Thaxted tonight. Outside the window, a constant flow of bohemian people on bicycles is passing by. One was carrying a violin. Another had a basket filled with beautiful flowers. It's a genteel place, Cambridge, which, at the moment, smells of wood smoke; one of the aromas of my childhood. Sometimes I think this place might just be the only place I could live other than London. The idea of retiring to a little house by the Cam with a punt in the garden sometimes appeals to me more than words can say. 

The headteacher of the school I visited yesterday is a man I've known since my early childhood. We once debated on a team together, hysterically against my father and best friend, Tammy. He is married to Catherine, a teacher of history who had a very profound impact on my life. She's the reason I went to York University and got me through some very dark times in my teenage years. It was, therefore, a wonderful privilege to spend time with her last night. She was on very good form. 

350 years ago Pepys had the mother of all rows with Elizabeth, once again about their dog. Pepys in the past had threatened to throw said creature out of the window for pissing in the house and on this occasion was threatening to lock it in the cellar for defecating all over the place. Any threat of violence towards the dog was a red rag to a bull for Elizabeth, and the row obviously  disturbed Pepys more than he was prepared to admit;  "We went to bed and lay all night in a quarrel. This night I was troubled all night with a dream that my wife was dead, which made me that I slept ill all night