‘Hi. Sorry to interrupt.’

‘I’m in such bad shape. Stiff as a board. I’ll have to get in some classes before the vacation strikes. What can I do for you?’

‘I can’t make it tonight. I’m sorry.’

She looked at me without speaking.

‘Something’s cropped up.’

‘Yeah,’ she said at last. ‘That guy has cropped up. They always told me the Irish were fools. Now I know it’s true.’

She raised her hands from the desk and began to click her fingers.

She held her arms out towards me. Click, click.

‘Little Irish puppy dog comes running.’

‘You’re being a bit rough. I’m just stepping out of a group visit to the cinema.’

Click. Click.

‘What has he got that we haven’t got?’

‘Do you really want me to tell you?’

Click. Click.

‘Nah. Forget it. He’s obviously quite irresistible. I suppose we won’t see you till the end of term now. Is that the way it’ll be? At least this time we’ll know it wasn’t something one of us said.’ Click.

‘Apologise to the others, will you?’ I turned to leave.

‘Remember what happened to Little Red Riding Hood.’

I slammed the door. At least, I thought, they’ll have a topic of conversation if the film’s no good. I returned to The Last September and the remains of my yogurt.

I was behaving like my sister Rosie. I thought of her dotty and irrational behaviour when ensnared by what she called love – usually infatuation for some totally unsuitable nerd … usually of the sporting variety. She, of course, ended by making Mother happy and marrying a barrister, who is rising at speed and confines his sporting activities to some mild tennis and sailing on Thursday evenings and Saturdays from the Royal Irish Yacht Club in Dun Laoghaire.

Why do we always feel we have to make our mothers happy? That’s just a passing thought. I will not dwell on it now. I will gather together my papers and go and talk about The Last September and the decay of the Big House in Ireland. Yawn. By the way, I must remember always that Rosie is a happy person. She has found a place for herself in the Scheme of Things. My major problem being that I don’t believe that there is a Scheme of Things.

To get back to brass tacks.

After the lecture I walked quite fast along the corridor towards my office, almost ran in fact, except that I thought that to run would lay me open to ribald comments from my colleagues.

What did I have time to do? What did I need to do? Everything.

Tidy the flat.

Wash the dishes.

Make the bed.

Buy some flowers … food.

Have a bath.

Pick up the clothes from my bedroom floor. (Slut.)

Wash my hair.

Scrape my face off and put a new one on, if only, if only.