I took a train to Oxford last Wednesday to give a speech to the benefactors of my old college. I was in excellent spirits. The sun was shining and I was amusing myself reading a blog post by Chip Conley, the entrepreneur, about the wisdom that comes with age. At 56, he likes to see himself less as a carton of milk bearing a sell-by date than a bottle of fine wine that gets better every year.
As I walked through Oxford I felt inclined to agree. I too was like an improving bottle of wine. No longer did the honey stone whisper: “You aren’t good enough.” The intensity — both the misery and the odd spurt of joy — I felt as an undergraduate had finally receded. Lady Margaret Hall, whose façade used to look like a prison to me, has had vast sums spent on it and in the late afternoon sun looked borderline handsome.
I was even looking forward to giving the speech. Nothing could go wrong, the audience was captive and I had written something that I felt balanced comic reminiscence with sincerity, and was edgy enough to keep the audience from nodding off over the port.