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finger in the other man’s chest. A third man was standing between them, smiling weakly and attempting to calm the situation.
    “I’m not sure you can blame Mike this time,” I said to Brian. “I had a run-in with that chap myself earlier today and I have to say, he’s pretty obnoxious.”
    Brian grunted. “Obnoxious or not, he’s a customer. Mike had better watch himself. If they’ve got a problem, they can take it outside. I’m not having a fight in my pub.”
    As we watched, the third man tried again, this time inserting himself bodily between the two arguing men. They seemed to calm down slightly and both stopped to take a drink from their glasses. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I didn’t think I could handle any more drama today.
    Brian set my drinks in front of me, took the money I offered, and handed me a packet of pork scratchings. He gave me a wink. “On the house.”
    I smiled my thanks, then tucked the packet under my arm, picked up the drinks, and, balancing them carefully, made my way over to join Cassie and Seth.
    “I’ve just been telling Seth all about our day and our American Psycho,” said Cassie as I sat down. Her eyes flicked across the room. “And then I look up and he’s there! And as charming as ever, I see.”
    I groaned. “I know; it’s like some kind of curse—I can’t get away from the man! When he said he was going into Oxford earlier, I was hoping that he wouldn’t be coming back any time soon.”
    “Well, the coach probably brought the whole tour group back to the hotel this afternoon,” said Cassie. “Anyway, forget him.” She turned to Seth, sitting next to her. “So how’s life in the ‘dreaming spires’ these days?”
    Seth cleared his throat and pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose. It was a gesture I could remember from the day I met him when I first arrived as a Fresher in college. He had come up to read Chemistry, whilst I’d opted for the more genteel degree of English Literature. He had a room on my staircase in college and he had found me on that first day in Noughth Week, struggling with my suitcase at the bottom of the four-flight staircase. He had gallantly insisted on carrying my case up for me, in spite of nearly keeling over under the weight of it, and we had been firm friends ever since.
    Seth was sweet and shy, although his earnest sharing of information could occasionally make him come across as pompous. Maybe because of this, he had opted to remain in the insular safety of academia and had gone straight from his undergraduate degree to a DPhil (PhD to the rest of the world), then a Junior Research Fellowship, and finally a Senior Research Fellow. I didn’t think it would be long before he was made Professor. I suspected that Seth harboured a secret crush on Cassie all these years, but was simply too shy to tell her.
    He was blushing slightly now as he recounted a story about his adventures at High Table. All the Oxford colleges had stately halls where a communal dinner was served and the dons and “fellows”—the academic staff—normally sat at High Table, usually at the very top of the room. Politics at High Table could be treacherous, especially for a younger member of the Senior Common Room—as Seth was finding out. With his naturally diffident manner, he was an easy target for the more domineering members of the SCR.
    “You should have just told him where to stuff it,” said Cassie heatedly as he finished his story. “I would have—”
    “THAT’S A LOAD O’ BOLLOCKS!”
    We all jerked our heads around. Mike Bailey was thrusting himself aggressively at the American, his face mottled with anger.
    “Hey, don’t get mad at me just because you don’t like to hear the truth,” said the American loudly. “Your country is a sad relic of the last century, stuck in your stupid traditions and elitist attitudes, with crap food and miserable, stuck-up people. Come to the U.S. and see what real progress is!”
    “I’ve had