Dreaming spires...

It is astonishing to think that I spent three years here. That this was home. As much home, in a sense, as Devon was home. And it could have been home for longer if only I'd done that DPhil instead of getting drawn into the glittery TV world.

One of my tutors, Professor Carolyne Larrington, was having her formal function and the two others from my year were among the oldest there. Only three other attendees matriculated earlier than us.

It was strange to be there... I mean, I have returned for various reasons in the past, even to this specific college, not just to the city. But I felt at home far more on this occasion than on any of the others - even when I was doing the MSt and was actually a student again. And even before I saw the familiar faces.

Maybe it's something about acceptance. Aging. No longer fighting all the ties that bind me. Or, perhaps, acknowledging a tie that I want to hold on to amid the many that I want to let go. This, I think, is one of the greater wisdoms: to know what to hold on to and what to drop. It felt right to want to hold on to this.

The evening was good. Seeing people who have not changed (well, a few wrinkles and some grey) and meeting someone new (interested in the same work on the more-than-human). the food was exceptional. The wine must have been - the college always had a great cellar - but I was driving. I should have stayed, perhaps, the others stayed.

It is odd to feel in some ways closer to people after not having seen them for three decades. And it's because we shared this. Those short, intense terms. The work. The booze. The camaraderie and the falling out. The tutorials and the fear over Finals. The starry sky over Canterbury Quad knowing we'd never have it so good again. Even now, to step into the Porters' Lodge and announce oneself as an alumnus and to be welcome because of that.

To see everyone as beautiful and talented and fascinating. To, all-too-briefly, shine.