I had the mark in my sites, strolling blithely towards disaster. But then, aren’t we all?
The cool, misty fingers of autumn stretched over Cambridge with all the gentle tenderness of an iron paling fence.
Whatever you do, don’t feed the swans.
I had found the room every undergraduate dreads, the very special examination facility.
With luck, I could slip out before the college security officer finished laying the tripwire …
And so with all the weariness of the solitary invigilator, I unpacked my binoculars, unscrewed my thermos and began my long scrutiny of the rooftops of Cambridge…
Very seldom do stairways in Cambridge lead to heaven, or even a reasonable facsimile thereof …
I had finally found the exam results generator. Now I could really throw a spanner in the works…
I could feel the odds lengthening against me like midsummer afternoon shadows in a Cambridge churchyard.
A journey into Cambridge’s industrial past is an excursion into such neglected urban corners as are usually reserved for anonymous hard men and forgotten research assistants.
The cult of St Lazarus had, of course, proved surprisingly tenacious in Cambridge.
Judging from the light fittings and brickwork I had once again found myself in Senior Librarian’s Interrogation Suite C.
Cambridge so often feels like a graveyard, and not merely of academic reputations.
There is no corner of Cambridge too shady or too quiet for bicycle parking and book crime.
Cambridge had briefly shrugged off its summer clothes and swaddled itself once again in its customary garb of gun metal grey.