‘American studies, religious studies, art history, history, linguistics, languages, philosophy, classics, archaeology … all under threat. So let’s be clear, this conversation is not about saving the humanities. Rather, it’s about saving the university. Because, make no mistake, the university needs us. Without us, it will lose its relevance. It will no longer be a house of learning or command authority and respect. It will be diminished, reduced to a shell. A bland institution offering conveyor belt courses …’ I couldn’t hear myself think. I tried to continue but my growing awareness of the vice-chancellor’s restlessness distracted me. I tried to take up where I’d left off, repeating, ‘The university needs us’, but I was lost, and I stepped away from the microphone.

As I pushed back through the crowd one or two people smiled at me, but most didn’t notice me go by. The protest continued, the crowd continued to chant. The energy within the quadrangle rose and fell, and I was just another voice, one of many. But I’d eased my conscience and I felt better. Quite possibly I’d made a fool of myself but at least I hadn’t remained silent. And that was enough for me.

Notes for a beating heart: A question mark hangs over my heart notes; I can’t complete them yet. At least I now know where to look, where to find the final ingredient for my blend. I’ve already started my search. As I left the protest the sun came out and within minutes the heat caused the ground to steam. The first thing I noticed was the scent rising from the mound of eucalyptus bark. It was intoxicating, the smell transporting me to a place of piercing light and heat shimmering beneath a cloud of fresh camphor. The steam continued to rise, creating a fine mist that filtered through the trees at the outskirts of the university grounds. It was like being inside a hothouse. Walking past a small planting of native bush I identified a kawakawa, its bright green and caterpillar-nibbled heart-shaped leaves distinctive against the ferns nearby. I plucked a leaf and crushed it, inhaling a scent of peppered baked potatoes. I took some more and sniffed again, aware that I was being watched by a group of students seated on a bench across the small lawn. The scent was muted, but pleasant, far less harsh than the peppery horopito I’d muddled at Archer’s. Ignoring the students, I stepped deeper into the bush and went from plant to plant, plucking, crushing and inhaling the leaves. I found a tarata and enjoyed the lemon scent I’d first ‘discovered’ back in Renate’s garden. I took my time sniffing and testing, and as I pushed further into the thicket I realised I felt happy. A weight had lifted, I was having fun.