Lock up your grandfathers!

That cry went up all over London when my old Cambridge college arranged an alumni evening in an Islington pub last week, and I registered to attend. Without Hubby. Out came the curling tongs, on went the mascara and off I went to catch the train.

I was really looking forward to it, despite the attendance list containing the names of only three people I knew: a rejoiner, a communist and a Greek scholar (plus fellows and administrators). Still, I was confident that others who hadn't registered would turn up. That always happens at these drinky things and, my college being my college, starting a conversation with complete strangers is de rigueur.

The pub wasn't on a convenient bus or underground route and it wasn't far enough to justify a taxi, so I walked from the flat. Halfway there, the clouds burst. My umbrella that normally won't close, at that moment wouldn't open. Oh, my hair! I found the pub and dashed to the ladies to scrunch and spritz and reapply the lip gloss. I meant business.

I saw the Greek scholar deep in conversation with a chap I didn't recognise. I therefore latched on to a complete stranger and introduced myself in the usual college fashion: "Rachael 79 Nat Sci [Natural Sciences)]," to which he responded, "Charles 74 Philosophy."

To be clear, we weren't divulging our ages but the year we first went to Cambridge. Being a 79 lady always garners a reaction along the lines of "79 eh? Good for you", 1979 being the first year the college admitted ladies. This was a momentous step and one the college took with a sharp intake of breath, because at that time there was an indelible stench of testosterone in the bar, the library, the buttery and, I'm reliably informed, the chapel. Indeed, so sensitive was the college at how the initial small cohort of ladies would fair in such a macho environment, they admitted us more on how they thought we'd cope emotionally rather than on our academic prowess. Otherwise, I'd have ended up at Leeds. 

As it happened, I would have preferred Leeds because of the content of their physics course, and I was a huge Leeds United fan. With that in mind, when I went for my Cambridge interview, I treated it as one great growing-up adventure. I caught the train on my own. Walked through the strange city on my own. Bought myself lunch in a café on my own – cottage cheese and pineapple salad – and arrived punctually at college, by which time I had been joined by a couple of blisters courtesy of my ill-fitting shoes. But they looked good with my smart blue dress and matching coat; who cares if the only size they had in the shop was a ½ size too small. My feet. They cared.

Enjoying the occasion and not worried about the outcome, I was relaxed and chatty, if not a little flirtatious. They probably decided to offer me a place before asking the first question. Just as well, because that first question was, "What are the properties of an electron in a vacuum?"

I didn't know and I said, "I don't know."

Honesty is always the best policy. Well, not always. It can land you in the s--t, but the upside is that you can then pick up handfuls and throw it back at whomever put you there in the first place. My saving grace was that I didn't stop there (talking, that is, not throwing excrement) and continued something like, "Well, it'll spin as usual. There’s nothing for it to collide with in a vacuum and it's not impacted by gravity. I guess its movements, because of its charge, would be determined by any electromagnetism such as light." Doesn't matter if that's right or wrong. What the fellows (wonder when that word will be gender-neutralised ffs) were looking for was how I reacted to a difficult question and how I justified my answer, whatever it was.

A later question also sticks in my mind: "The world is in a mess because of science, for example nuclear weapons and hideous pollution. Is science a force for evil and should we stop teaching it?" This, more than 30 years before Grimacer ThunderBugger was a twinkle in her daddy's eye and a thorn in everyone else's side. I responded without thought (I do that a lot), "Science has got us into this mess and only science can get us out of it by coming up with the solutions. Poetry can't do that."

Wham bam, the offer of a place arrived on Christmas Eve, at which I sobbed uncontrollably because I wasn't allowed to refuse it and go to Leeds, where I'd set my heart.

Back to the present and the pub: Charles 74 Philosophy, once the usual 79-good-for-you platitudes were over, summarised his career since graduation, including being a management consultant firstly in finance and then in IT. "Where did you study finance and IT?" I asked. "Didn't," he said. "I made it up as I went along."

Full of admiration for someone who could bulls--t better than me, I nevertheless excused myself when his friend arrived and I found another victim, I mean single gent, to chat up. Can't remember his name, only the 83 History part. He had played football while at college and had coached at his son's school. Inevitably, given the news headlines that day, we veered on to Gary Lineker (I'd rather have veered into him with a tank) and his rant against Suella Braverman and her Immigration Policy Mark IX.

"Well, I do support free speech," I ventured, conscious that I myself have been on the receiving end of the ire of the fascist Thought Police.

"Nothing to do with free speech," countered 83 History. "It's what his contract says and what BBC policy says."

Wanting to agree but unable to quash my penchant for playing Devil's Advocate, I kept digging: "Assuming his contract is ok, why shouldn't he use his fame to, as he says, give a voice to the voiceless?"

"Voice to the voiceless? Huh! Power to the people smugglers is more accurate. He's an idiot."

I love this guy! and could have chatted with him all evening but spotted a fellow and, before starting on my third glass, headed in his direction. I needed to talk to him about a minefield into which I was about to lead the college owing to one of my well-meaning projects taking an unwelcome turn. On my way over, I grabbed the Greek scholar (Tom 65 Classics) for moral support because he'd emailed me earlier to say he agreed with me. After a very intense discussion, where the fellow said he could see where I was coming from but …, and I said I could see where he was coming from but …, we had to leave it at that because it was time for him to give a quick hello, welcome, thank you and keep drinking kind of speech to all attendees. I pulled a rabbit out of the hat the next day (once the headache had gone) and hopefully have avoided an embarrassing exposé in the Graundia. Although to be honest, I'd consider an embarrassing report in the Grinduaa to be a badge of honour. I'd hate them to be on my side, because that would mean I was wrong.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the rejoiner. We actually get on very well. Always have. She's a brunette and I am (was) a strawberry blonde. We both had a penchant for tight denim dungarees in the chemistry lab. You do the maths. 

I found myself talking to the communist (Peter 78 Computer Science), but this evening it was all about rowing, sailing and fundraising.

Then the lovely Pat 79 Law appeared, gave me a hug and we updated each other on our current projects and our respective Hubbys' semi-retirement activities. Pat and I were never friendly at college. What I mean is, we weren't unfriendly; it's just that neither our social nor academic paths really crossed, and we didn't meet for about 20 years after graduation. These days we bump into each other a couple of times a year, and she's always warm, sensitive and kind. I need that.

Noticing that the room was thinning out quickly, I also left and hobbled back to the flat, the two blisters on my feet courtesy of my ill-fitting (but sexy) boots, a reminder of when a walk in a strange city was an adventure for a naïve flirtatious teen, not a humdrum necessity for a weary flirtatious crone.