Sighting [Don Mace]

Sunday. The Doña and Doniño, on a rare visit to Cambridge, are taking me for an (OMG-it's-) early morning stroll. Because babies don't get hangovers. "Bowl!" "Mo bowl!" He absolutely lurves churchbells. I've rarely been more of an atheist.

Not far in front of us, Delphine, on a rare visit to Cambridge, emerges from a college not her own.

Ah.

I don't make introductions. No, I just watch her by; she grabs her bike and cycles off towards Bridge Street. When she disappears, I turn to my son and say "Breakfast time?"

And that's your Don. All the awkwardness, jealousy and poignancy of adultery, with none of the sex.

On that note, term's over again, and the Don is returning to domesticity. Adios. Hopefully Char will be back any minute.

Oh, wait, the end-of-term party...

It's 1 am the day before. For some reason my jacket is sporting a bunch of fake grapes, inserted into its breast pocket by a cute ex-blonde dressed as a Fate. The older husband of a European friend has just squeezed them, like they were a boob, and he a teenager. He's not the first. He is, however, the first to follow up by slipping his hand inside my jacket and rubbing my nipple. "It runs in the family", he says, by way of clarifying that this is, in fact, weird. Charmaine, I think I have some more friends for you.