Long, long ago, in the days before laptops and iPhones — well, just about exactly 36 years ago — I was driven by a Cypriot Stalinist up the new M40 to begin my short career at Balliol College, Oxford. My trunk followed by rail — except that it didn’t. I spent a fortnight in the same underwear.
Oh the disasters! The bathrooms were so cold you had to undress in the steam. I couldn’t organise a gown so missed matriculation. Hated Jacob Burckhardt so failed German prelims. Got into the politics so much that I missed everything else.
A psychologist would probably decide I was trying to get chucked out. And I was.
There were desultory efforts to help me out, but at 19 I was deemed a big boy and no-one would dig me out of my own hole.