And laugh at this fantaſtic Mummery, / This antic Prelude of groteſque Events, / Where Dwarfs are often ſtilted, and betray / A Littleneſs of ſoul by Worlds o'er-run, / And Nations laid in blood.

We passed through an inner courtyard overladen with fake wrought-iron railings and accents badly in need of a paint job, evoking a kind of Woolworth's Vieux Carré.

Most poignantly of all, though, when I get fed up with working alone, I remember Victorian high school staffrooms of the sixties and seventies: the rigid hierarchy with its irritations, but also the chiacking, the squabbles, the timely advice from some old stager with a fag drooping off his lip.

Her cheeks glow the brighter, recruiting their colour.