The distance between the S.U. and the Octagon (the boxy redbrick building where the fair was located) was small, but the number of overly enthusiastic students distributing flyers between them was large. By the time she made it inside, Daisy had acquired a pretty blue balloon with a tree on it and a perforated page of drinks vouchers from every pub, bar, and nightclub in town.

“Welcome, friend!” A round, gregarious young man opened his arms to reveal a T-shirt with FREE HUGS! written on it. As he approached, Daisy skittered backward, tripped over the tail of someone dressed as an enormous blue kangaroo, and fell back, scattering flyers like confetti.

The Free Hugs guy reached down and offered her a hand.

“Not interested in joining the Free Huggers, then?” he said.

“Not really. Is there a Preserve Personal Space Society?”

“You could try the Young Conservatives. No one ever hugs those guys . . .”

A group of people so posh they could have been mistaken for a shooting party were offering people a tray of Pimms and pin badges that said Too Rich to Tax.

“I’m not sure they’re really my type of people,” she told the Free Hugger, but he had already abandoned her to launch himself enthusiastically at someone else.

The Octagon was huge inside. Banners and posters lined the walkways and hung from the beams, and all the booths were festooned with freebies. New blood was at a premium, and Daisy’s combination of vulnerability and good manners made her an appealing target. Five steps into the room, and she was accosted by a barbershop quartet, who sang her a jaunty little tune detailing what she could expect if she just wrote her e-mail address on the bottom of their sign-up sheet.

When she asked if they knew any Enya, they burst into an a cappella version of “Orinoco Flow,” delighting Daisy so much that she signed her name with a flourish and moved on to the next booth.

As Daisy worked her way through the press of eager students, it seemed to her as if there were a book club for every language, a society for every sport, and so much more. There was no hobby in the world that wasn’t catered to, each with a crack group of enthusiastic participants hawking their passions to a receptive crowd.

“Come test your tiddlywink skills . . .”

“Can you tell your feta from your cheddar?”

“Sign up for squash!”