Very Old Cambridge Tales: 2

SNAPSHOTS OF CAMBRIDGE

Ron Shakespeare’, a casual at the Arts, was so plastered the other evening that he actually got caught on stage at the end of a scene-change. The Stage Manager did his nut and threatened this time to fire him.

‘All right, all right – but first you give me an appearance fee!’ quipped ‘Ron’.

                                                  *                  *                  *

The other day, just after the April snow, I was accosted by a burly American girl with a pair of opera glasses round her neck, who was wandering along the Backs looking for the Bird Sanctuary.

‘You know, the most amazing thing,’ she said, is there don’t seem to be any hummingbirds here…’

                                                *                  *                  *

A certain lecturer in moral philosophy was so liberal that when served by the nice Nigerian girl in the University Library tea-room, he couldn’t bring himself to ask for a ‘white’ coffee.

                                                *                  *                  *

I called on old Addley and was relieved to discover that he had been able to resume his dissertation on William Gerhardie. Some chrysalids, which appeared all over his box-files and card-indexes when caterpillars crept in through his open windows last September, had hatched in the recent warm weather and the butterflies flown away.

                                                *                  *                  *

Tucked away in a dank corner of our College gardens, I discovered a small dry-stone wall. It seemed to serve absolutely no purpose, so I asked an Adam who was tilling a flower-bed nearby, what it was doing there.

‘Those are pieces of boys’ hearts, sir,’ he replied with a wag of his head. ‘We keep finding them all round the College, now that the Women are up.’

                                                *                  *                  *

The General Election. Dr M., Master of X., wanted to put up a VOTE LABOUR board on a tree overhanging the pavement from his garden. Appropriately enough, he rang up the Junior Bursar to send round a workman.

                                                *                  *                  *

I was in Gallyon’s poring over a case-full of spinners. One of those Trinity toffs came in – cavalry twills, Viyella shirt, cheese-cutter – strode up to the counter, and quacked: ‘I want a dozen No. 8 hooks and a ton of shit! Er, I mean a tin of…’

                                                                                 KULYGIN

© Patrick Miles, 1978

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