Month: October 2016

Windows Of The Soul

Something suitably spooky from the Old College vaults…

Secret Diary Of PorterGirl

If this doesn't scare you, nothing will... If Head Porter doesn’t scare you, nothing will…

Halloween at Old College…

A rain-sodden wind threatens to tear the bowler from my head as I make my way by torchlight across Apple Tree Court. Although the hour is not so late, an overcast and dreary afternoon has hastened the evening darkness. I am delighted to be accompanied by the eminent anthropologist Dr Silas McGee, who will be staying with us whilst he has appointments to attend to in The City.

An alumnus of Old College, Dr McGee is a pleasingly unconventional-looking gentleman with greying curly hair and thick-rimmed square spectacles. He appears to be of a delicate constitution, although is very jolly. He is carrying with him a well-used yet sturdy flight case, which I am led to believe contains artifacts of interest from his recent travels.

We take refuge from the dank autumn evening in J staircase and the…

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Meeting The Detectives

Secret Diary Of PorterGirl

A cursory consideration of the Detective Chief Inspector reveals to me several things. For one, he is a native of The City and quite likely an alumnus of The University. His accent and vernacular give him away immediately. Which College, it is impossible to tell just now but I suspect he did not spend his formative years within these walls.

Notwithstanding his rank, he is an officer who is still very much at the sharp end of his business. Despite the expensive suit, (and it is an expensive suit) he has chosen for his footwear a remarkable brand of boot more commonly used in many forces by the firearms department. It was barely perceptible at first due to military-like shine giving the impression of a dress shoe; so highly polished are his boots that I can see infinity in the toecaps. The thick soles are rather well worn so he…

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First Law Of Economics: There Are No Laws Of Economics

Who Shot Tony Blair?

At the dining table of Number Eleven Downing Street, Cambridge, the dark arts of economic praxis were being perpetrated by Chancellor Ian Risk and dubious Trade Minister, Simon Daley. Number Eleven was, in fact, a far more suitable station for the seat of Government, having been smart solicitors’ offices before the revolution. But Prime Minister Wastell had absolutely insisted on taking Number Ten, thereby leaving the Chancellor with an altogether more practical berth in which to operate.

Operations appeared to be going quite well. As Ian and Simon surveyed the scene before them, all that could be heard was the faint rustle of used bank notes and a zephyr of smug satisfaction. If you ignored the vast moral chasm that gaped imploringly before you, (and the Trade Minister certainly did) then you could say that Simon’s plan was a stroke of genius. And the University really wasn’t going to miss…

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