Viola and I walked across Oxford until we got to our destination.

No, that won't do.  I showed this bit to Jim and he burst out laughing.

'You can't write that!'

'What do you mean, I can't write that?  What's wrong with it?  It's what happened!'

'Yes, all right, but it won't do for this.  This is actual writing you're doing here and I'm going to make sure you do it properly!'

'What do you mean by "properly"?'

Jim sat back in the alcove and smiled at me.  If he wasn't my best friend I've have minded it, but he is, so I let him carry on.  After all, he does work for a bookbinder, so he must know something about writing books.  He's seen thousands of them.

'Who do you think is reading this… stuff… you're scribbling?'

'I don't know.  People, I suppose.  And their daemons.'

'What sort of people?'

'People who can read.'

Jim sighed.  'Stars above, you can be thick sometimes.  Of course they can read.  But who are they?  Where are they from?  What do they know about you?  Or who you are?  Or where you live?'

'Everyone's heard of Oxford.  And it says my name, Peter Joyce, on the front page.'

'Has everyone heard of Oxford?  Really?  What about if they come from New Denmark?  Or the Republic of Texas?  Or Frankland, or Kathay, or Muscovy or the Antipodean Islands?  You've got to tell them more than that.  Don't assume that just because you know something, everybody else must know it too.  Oxford isn't the centre of the world, and neither are you.

'And there's another thing.  Readers like to read.'

'Duh!'

'No, I mean it.  They actually enjoy the words.  Just saying "Viola and me went to Jordan College", or whatever it was, is short-changing them.  Give them something to chew on.'

'You told me there was a rule of writing that says "don't write the stuff that people don't want to read".'

'That's about not writing waffle.  Not about not writing anything!'

Thanks, Jim.  If you're from around here you'll know all about Oxford so I apologise in advance for wasting your time telling you things you already know.  Just chew on the words, eh?

Otherwise, for your benefit if you're from Kathay, or Hindustan, or the Warlike Planet; the University of Oxford is the main centre of learning in Brytain.  I have heard of other rival establishments in Cantabriensis and Mancunia, and natural philosophy is said to be understood very well at the Imperial Chapel in London, but they pale in comparison with the age and distinction of the Colleges of Oxford.  Of those Colleges, the oldest and most distinguished is Jordan College, where Viola and I were taking our parcel.

Like all proper cities, Oxford is built by a river; the Isis.  It's got a tributary, the Cherwell, which runs down to it around the back of some of the newer colleges and there's an artificial canal too, which carries traffic on barges up to Banbury and beyond.

I've always liked canals.  There's something about the smell of them, coal-smoke and still water, that makes me think of when I was a kid, growing up with my Mum and Dad, by the Grand Junction in the small town of Tring.  So even though it was so extremely freezing cold and I didn't really want to be out in the open air at all, I didn't follow the straight route to Jordan, which was only about a quarter of a mile away, but wandered down to the wharf to see if there were any boats in. 

The wharf is by Hythe Bridge Street, a hundred yards or so down the hill towards the railway station.  The pavement was slippery with ice and snow and people were sliding along, or risking their lives by walking in the roadway.  Carts, and fiacres, and gas-engine powered autobuses were hooting or shouting at them to get out of their way and the crush was pretty bad, so it took us a while to get there.  Having a squirrel-daemon is great!  Viola was able to run along the tops of the walls, jumping across the gateways, always taking care not to get too far away, of course.  I love to watch her when she does this.

I usually lean on the iron railings at the crown of the bridge when I want to look at the boats, but the crush was dangerous, so I went, very carefully, down the steps onto the wharf-side itself.  I could see straight away that there wasn't going to be very much more traffic through the basin in the near future.  There was a film of ice on the top of the water that would, if there was a hard frost tonight, thicken up and make it impossible for the boats to pass along the canal tomorrow unless they could get an ice-breaker through first.

There were four gyptian boats moored up there, and I made a note of their names – Pride of Limerick, Mavis and a motor-boat and butty pair, Maggie and Jimmy.  The motor-boat tows the butty boat, by the way, in case you're wondering.  They were all proper working boats, tough and dependable, and their paintwork and brass fittings were shining green and red and gold in the pale sunlight.  Gyptians take great pride in their boats.

'What does you want?'  A little man in a grey felt cap poked his head up out of the cabin of the Maggie.  His magpie-daemon perched on the coaming next to him.

'Nothing, mister.  Just looking.'

'Look somewhere else!'  The hatch closed with a slam behind him.

'Don't hurt to look!' But he was gone.  Sod him, then.  Like I said, I grew up next to the canal and I've met, and mostly got on with, lots of gyptian families – had rides on their boats and everything.  There's always one, though.

We climbed the slippery hill back up to the centre of town and pushed through the crowds to the main entrance of Jordan College.  If you've been to Oxford, you've seen Jordan.  All the day tours go there, although they don't usually get much further than the Entrance Quad and maybe a quick look inside the Public Oratory.  The place is so old, and so rambling and so many of the new bits – meaning that they're only three hundred years old or so – have been built on top of, or beside, or occasionally underneath, the old bits, that finding your way around is an absolute nightmare.  They do say that the south-east extension is haunted by the ghosts of a Cook's Tour who became lost in the cloisters and never found their way out and were doomed to go round and round it for ever until they fell to their knees and died of exhaustion.

They do say that, but it's all bollocks.

I stuck my head into the porter's lodge and showed them the label on the parcel.  The porter gave me a long list of directions, ending with '…and then it's the second landing on the north-east stair in the third quadrangle after the Stone Passage.  Right next to the Whistling Hall.  You can't miss it!'

'Thanks.'  I'd have asked him to take it for me, but you wouldn't expect a porter to carry things, would you?  Anyway, there was five shillings to collect.

It only took ten minutes, though it felt longer, and several wrong turnings before I found what I was fairly sure was the right stair.  A look at the name-card by the entrance told me I was right.  I trudged up the creaking wooden flight until I reached the second landing.  There was the door I wanted, and to my relief it wasn't shut.  See, if a College resident shuts his door completely, it's called "sporting his oak" and it means Do Not Disturb.  If it's open, even only a little bit, then it's all right to knock.  I knocked, and a voice – an unexpected voice – called to me to come in.

I opened the door wide and walked into the room, my parcel tucked under my arm.  There was someone sitting at a large desk by the window.  I couldn't see very clearly, as the light was streaming in through it, dazzling me.

'I'm sorry,' I said.  'I'm looking for,' I held up the parcel and looked at the label again, 'I'm looking for Professor Belacqua.   Do you know where he is?'

The person at the desk stood up and turned to me so that I could see her face.  She took off her spectacles.

'I'm Professor Belacqua,' she said, and smiled.  'It's a common mistake.'

I looked back towards her, dumbstruck.

'Then this is for you,' I said stupidly, and held the parcel out towards her.  She took it.

'Thank you.'  She looked at the label.  'You have come from James and James?'

'Yes, Madam Professor.'  I was remembering my manners.

'It is a cold day for a boy with no greatcoat to be out on his master's business.  Is your master a hard man?'

'No, Madam Professor.'

'There are messengers who could have carried this.'  She frowned.  'Are you feeling cold now?'

'A little cold, Madam Professor.'

'Then sit down by the fire and become a little warmer.'  I sat in an upholstered chair next to the fire, which was small, but burning brightly and cheerfully.  'Would you like something to drink?'

'Yes please, Madam Professor.  Do you have any chocolatl?  Or chai?'

Professor Belacqua looked down towards me from where she stood by her desk.  The sunlight pouring through the window lit up her hair from behind, making a sort of golden halo around her face.

'I'm sure I can find something.'  I expected her to ring a bell for her scout – that's what the College servants are called – but instead she passed into another room next to the one I was sitting in.  I heard the clatter of a kettle and the clang of a saucepan and realised to my astonishment that she – a full Professor of Jordan College – was boiling milk to make chocolatl for me, Peter Joyce, the clockmaker's boy of James and James, Shoe Lane, Oxford.

Was it then that I lost my heart to her?