Cambridge

July 15, 2011

Final meal together at the Mitre last night. Then drinks at the Pickerel, and a lively night, with Alex the Politician returning, and myself surrounded by handsome punter boys, lured by the proximity of my girls, but in any case lured. Unbelievably handsome, Nick and Matt, longing to speak of books and poetry, me staring, answering, hardly able to believe my luck. I did not want to go home, but too many drinks were churning in my stomach, and the night air was necessary. If that could have been the first night here, rather than the penultimate . . . .

Returned to King’s chapel with a ticket they had neglected to take the day before. Felt sly and triumphant. I lit a candle, put 50p in the box, and prayed, “Let me return.” Have been sick with sadness all day at the prospect of leaving Cambridge, returned to now so often it is a kind of home. Will try to find friends in the pubs to keep from walking along the Cam sobbing by the first night of the fading moon. I hate the last of anything.