Haron and I had been out in London for the evening – seeing the brilliant Tracy Chapman. (Her own songs were wonderful, twenty years on from her landmark début album, but it was her interpretation of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ that stole the show).

The tube pulled into Leicester Square, when the journey back to our hotel suddenly got more interesting.. Three young ladies boarded the train, wearing pyjamas and dressing gowns, in a state of giggly end-of-term intoxication. They proceeded to sit down in the middle of the carriage; one leant gently against my leg for support.

They’d be caught on their return to their college, no doubt, as they climbed over the fence (the gate having been locked for the night at its usual early hour). The porter would note their late and unorthodox means of entry in his logbook, together with the fact that they had evidently been drinking; that would sober them up almost immediately. They’d spend a sleepless night before their 8 a.m. appointment with the principal, who would lecture them sternly.

He’d ask two of them to step outside before informing the girl left in front of him that corporal punishment was the only option in the circumstances. The six hard strokes of the cane would be clearly audible to her friends on the other side of the door; they’d follow her in turn for their own private audiences, touching their toes for their canings.

(Seems a shame really: they were so sweet).