25 February 2016, 8 pm
I take my son to dinner, because he is a student and therefore never gets enough to eat, or at least, never gets enough to mop up the alcohol which his intensive academic activities require him to consume. Although his halls of residence include a kitchen, the microwave no longer works after he tried to boil an egg in it (yes, reader: with the shell on – an improvised explosive device of the highest order). Self-catering opportunities are therefore limited and parental sustenance essential. Following the sustenance, he shows me round Cambridge. This makes me feel old. It is thirty years since I showed my own parents round, and it is amazing how little has changed. Except that today’s students do not have to communicate with one another via written notes in pigeon holes, because they can text and email and post pictures of what they’re eating (or what they've exploded prior to eating) for all the world to see, and the Internet of Things ensures that wherever they are, their every wish is fulfilled. My son still has a pigeon hole, but I get the impression he is not expecting to find any pigeons in it.
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