on an early croissant run, I’d forgotten the fair was in town. Once a year the college closes the grand old street runnng into the centre, to demonstrate ownership and spin the bright lights as they’ve done for centuries. I pick my way through the cables and splatted candyfloss, treading carefully for my pastry shop. I should kick the habit but I’m weak. I like to eat bold from the bag, on the hoof, Belmondo quick-stepping down the alleyways in his mac, some backstreet business on the far side of the show that can’t wait. But I’m only making for the hatchback in a 30-minute bay, the roll home to the desk and more hours at the keys. I’m brushing the crumbs from my cuffs as I click through the gears.