10 May 2016, 7 pm
I have located one of my children. He is in an oak-panelled cafeteria, wearing a Voldemort cloak, and he has invited me to dine with him. This is all something to do with getting a degree, apparently. Funnily enough, nothing has changed since I was here thirty years ago. The same curious mixture of the sedate and the ludicrous prevails. A candlelit meal, accompanied by grazed plastic jugs of tepid tap water. Grace in Latin; plates of stew. A top table, resplendent with bewildered-looking Fellows. Uniformed waiters with subservient forelocks – serving doughnuts. It is comforting to see that for all its ceremonial gavels and AGM rituals, CIPA is by no means the least modern of the British institutions. After we have dined, my son reminds me that another part of getting a degree involves studying for exams. I do not ask what rites and rituals accompany this aspect of his university career, suspecting that some things may after all have changed in the last thirty years. I return to London, where I will check the plastic pot situation and see if there is something non-school-dinner-like for supper. I am still hungry. I do not like stew. Even by candlelight.
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