Saturday 1 October

I've arrived in Cambridge!

Woken at seven, as usual, by The Bird. Felt kind of relieved that today is the last time I'm going to have to put up with it waking me at ridiculous o'clock squawking "Rise and shine! Rise and shine! Brush your teeth! Brush your teeth!" That's been my wake-up call every morning since forever, and I'm looking forward to nine weeks without it.

I've never gotten on well with that bird of Dad's. It's a sulphur crested cockatoo called Kiki, which he got for his birthday when he was ten years old. Aye, you read that correctly: ten, so Kiki is now thirty-six and still going strong. Cockatoos aren't like cats and dogs. They live for decades. They are also noisy, smelly and messy wee beasties, and they can deliver a painful bite. Kiki's speciality, when she's not reciting nursery rhymes or telling you to blow your nose and shut the door, is to make a noise like a train going through a tunnel. It's absolutely deafening and even after eighteen years of it, it still makes me jump out of my skin.

Anyone in their right mind would keep a beastie like Kiki confined to a cage in the living room—or better still, in the garden shed. But not Dad. He gives her the run of the house and won't hear a word of putting her in a cage. Birds are Dad's life. He's an ornithologist by profession—he teaches and researches the subject at the University of St Andrews, where he heads up a group that's trying to bring back the Great Auk from extinction. It's the same kind of idea that you see on Jurassic Park—insert ancient DNA into the cells of another, related species—only less ambitious because in Dad's case the DNA he's working with is only a couple of hundred years old rather than a couple of hundred million.

We set off from our home in Strathkinness at eight in the morning. The whole family had decided to come—Dad, Mum, my sister Carla (age sixteen), my brother Lewis (age fourteen) and, despite my protestations, The Bird. Stopped at the services on the M6 between Carlisle and Penrith for lunch then carried on south, arriving in Cambridge at about four where we dropped off my belongings in College.

Carla said I needed to rearrange all the furniture in my room.

I said to her I didn't want it rearranged. It was fine as it was.

She said, "But you need to. It's got bad feng shui. You need the right balance of yin and yang."

This is something that Carla and I don't see eye to eye about. Carla seems to get into just about every kind of pseudoscience, conspiracy theory and New Age quackery that's going. I, on the other hand, am much more of a scientific sceptic. Carl Sagan said that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, and with good reason. If it weren't so, you'd be giving people like Carla a free pass to make up anything they liked.

Said so.

She said, "You're a typical Capricorn, Samuel. Do you have to be so sceptical about everything? I'm sure you would solve a lot of your problems if you just tried it."

Aye, right. As if rearranging the furniture would make me one of the cool kids, get me a girlfriend, get me through my driving test, get The Bird to shut up, and get people like Carla to stop peddling nonsense. Get real.

Put up a couple of posters. One of the Andromeda galaxy above my bed and a couple of MC Escher prints above my desk, overruling Carla's objections that the Escher prints had bad qi, whatever bad qi is supposed to be. Then we headed off to auntie Dinah's for supper in Grantchester.

It's the first time I've seen auntie Dinah since she got elected to Parliament at the last General Election. She's put on a lot of weight since I last saw her—obviously they feed them well in Westminster. She served us up jerk chicken with rice and peas, which apparently is the most popular dish in the House of Commons restaurants. She said that the recipe is open source and gave us a copy. Might try cooking it myself at some stage.

Washed down with lashings of prosecco.

Or at least, she and Dad washed it down with lashings of prosecco. Mum declined and had a Diet Coke instead because she doesn't drink. Her brother was killed by a drunk driver when she was fourteen and she hasn't touched a drop of alcohol ever since. Carla and I, on the other hand, were given ginger beer. Honestly! Besides the fact that I don't like ginger beer, it reminded me of that open day a year ago—at Heriot-Watt if I recall correctly—when, after all the presentations by the professors, we went for refreshments where the tea lady served uncle Philip (who is Head of Science at my old school) and Mrs MacGregor (our Chemistry teacher) with tea but only gave us students that horrible orange squash that tastes like plastic. "Tea for the visitors, squash for the students," she said officiously. Nice one, Heriot-Watt. Ever thought of going into advertising?

She offered prosecco to Lewis though, until Mum stopped her. Reminded her that he's still only fourteen and not old enough to drink.

She said to Lewis, "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have got the two of you mixed up. I thought you were the one coming up to university. I could have sworn you were the older of the two."

Sigh. Et tu, auntie Dinah?

I get that all the time for some reason. People keep thinking that Lewis is older than me when in actual fact he's four years younger. When I was about twelve, people used to ask if we were twins. He laps it up of course and takes full advantage of it whenever he can. Me, on the other hand, I get ID'd when I try to buy wine gums in a newsagent's.

Auntie Dinah's big news is that since she was made a junior minister to the Foreign Office recently, she now has direct access to all the classified files about the adventures that she and Dad had when they were teenagers along with uncle Philip, auntie Lucy, The Bird and great uncle Bill.

I've heard one or two of these tales before. Great uncle Bill was a field agent for MI5 or MI6 (I can never remember which) back in the day, so it's inevitable that the four of them would get tangled up in his investigations from time to time. But even so I still find myself reflexively doing a Carl Sagan on them. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence and all that. Especially since they seemed to fall into the most hair-raising adventures imaginable every single holiday.

Auntie Dinah started off telling us about the time they all went down with the measles over Easter, after which their doctor prescribed them a two week camping holiday once they'd recovered before they went back to school. I'd like to know what kind of doctor they had. I once asked my GP to prescribe me a two week camping holiday like that, but he just said, "I'm a doctor, laddie, no' a travel agent." Clearly they do things differently up in Scotland to what they did in Basingstoke thirty years ago. But the four of them, plus The Bird plus great uncle Bill, all toddled up to the Hebrides for a fortnight of camping, sailing, fishing, sunbathing and generally dossing about, only for great uncle Bill to end up being taken hostage by a gang of arms traffickers who had been hunting him down and were operating in the area.

Apparently, as well as taking great uncle Bill prisoner, the gang had smashed up their boat leaving them stranded. A couple of days later, along came a goofy looking bloke who said he was an ornithologist. Dad asked him a couple of questions and came to the conclusion he was most likely phony, so the four of them pushed the guy into a hole in the ground and made off with his boat, assuming he was one of the gang. They later found out, much to Dad's embarrassment, that he was the real deal, and to make matters worse, a few years later when Dad was applying for his PhD, he ended up being interviewed by that very same guy. Needless to say he didn't get it, and ended up going to St Andrews instead. But apparently he and this other bloke have been sworn enemies ever since.

The tales got spicier and spicier as auntie Dinah and Dad downed more and more prosecco. Auntie Dinah absolutely adores the stuff. Kept refilling her glass and Dad's over and over again as the meal progressed. Tried to get Mum to take some, which provoked the inevitable expletive-laden reaction. Didn't think to offer me any though, even though she'd been corrected on which of us was which. As a result, I remained as sober as anything while she and Dad got gradually more and more inebriated.

They told us about an adventure where Dad rescued the other three of them and the Crown Prince of some Ruritania-like country or other from a castle where they were all being kept cooped up. Said the country was called Tauri-Hessia. Must look it up on the map—I've never heard of it. Then they told us about some mountain or other in Wales that they'd stumbled upon, and this was where they turned the weird right up to eleven. Allegedly it contained a secret laboratory conducting antigravity experiments. Antigravity experiments! As if that weren't enough, the outfit was headed up by a mad scientist who called himself "the king of the mountain." Seriously, it all sounded like Peer Gynt meets Stargate SG-1 with lashings of Manic Miner thrown in for good measure.

Carla, meanwhile, was giving a running commentary throughout. She had a lot to say about the fact that their boat in the Hebrides was called the Lucky Star. Said that Jupiter must have been in the ascendant or some nonsense like that. As for the Stargate of Adventure in the Welsh mountain, she said that the reason the antigravity wings weren't working was because the mountain had bad feng shui. Didn't seem to occur to her that a more likely explanation as to why the antigravity wings weren't working is that antigravity is not a thing.

The Bird was pretty much the worse for wear too. It had been surreptitiously dipping its beak into Dad's glass when it thought nobody was looking and was now staggering round the table making gurgling noises. It was at this point that Mum decided that enough was enough, so she put the bottles of prosecco back in the fridge and got me to help the two of them up to bed. That done, she and Lewis took me back to College, leaving Carla to keep an eye on things. They stayed with me for about half an hour, helping me to unpack, then headed back to auntie Dinah's where they're spending the night before heading back up north in the morning.

And so, to bed for my first night in Cambridge. I'm dead tired after the long journey and just want to get some sleep. There's a funny noise coming from under my bed, but I'm too tired to investigate just now. Will check it out in the morning and report it at the Porters' Lodge if it's a problem.

Sunday 2 October

12:30pm.

Woken up at seven in the morning to the sound of "Rise and shine! Rise and shine! Brush your teeth! Brush your teeth!"

Opened my eyes and looked around. The Bird was perched on my desk opposite raising and lowering its crest. Only at this point I was reminded that I wasn't at home but at College in Cambridge. And that meant one thing in particular.

The Bird shouldn't be here!

How on earth did it get here in the first place? I'm pretty sure it wasn't here last night when Mum and Lewis headed off. Rubbed my eyes and stared at it for a few minutes. Pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I could have sworn it stuck out its tongue and blew a raspberry at me, like the Road Runner does to Wile E Coyote in the cartoons.

Called Dad on his mobile phone. Lewis answered it.

Asked him if he was aware that I had The Bird.

He said, "Yes."

Asked him if Dad was aware that I had The Bird.

He said, "Dad's got a massive hangover from last night and Mum's driving."

Asked him where they were.

He said, "Up near Peterborough. We set off about an hour ago."

Asked him if he could pass the message on and get them to turn round and come back and collect it post haste. We're not supposed to have pets in College, and if the Powers That Be get wind of this then I'll be in trouble.

He said, "Will do." And hung up.

Had a shower then got dressed and sat in the armchair, fiddling with a Rubik's Cube while I waited for Dad to arrive. About an hour later there was a knock on the door.

Answered it, expecting it to be Dad. Instead, I found myself face to face with one of the Porters. A grumpy looking older fellow with protruding ears, dressed in a suit, stripy waistcoat, and bowler hat.

He said, "Are you aware that it is strictly forbidden to have unauthorised pets in College?" Pointed to the window, where The Bird was strutting up and down looking very self important.

The Bird turned and eyed the Porter up and down. Then it gave him its verdict.

"Fusty musty dusty," it said. "Who d'ya think you're lookin' at?"

Apologised and explained that it was Dad's, that I think he must have left it here by mistake last night, that I'd phoned him to ask him to come and retrieve it, and I was expecting him any minute.

He said, "That's not good enough. You're still getting a twenty pound fine for having an unauthorised pet in College. Plus any surcharges for cleaning or repairs. The Domestic Supervisor will be up later to carry out an inspection and that will be chargeable too."

He turned and headed off, leaving this bombshell to sink in. Tried calling Dad again. No reply, but got a call back five minutes later. It was Mum. Calling from Doncaster.

Asked her if she'd got the message.

She asked, "What message?"

Explained to her that I've somehow ended up with The Bird in my possession.

She said, "I think I can guess how that might have happened. It will have been your brother's doing."

Asked her to come and retrieve it please, because I'd already been fined for having an unauthorised pet in College.

She said, "Will do." And hung up.

Put The Bird in the shower room and opened my door to head off for a walk. Found myself face to face with a funny looking bloke coming down the corridor towards me. A thin fellow, rather weedy, must have been in his sixties or thereabouts. Thin little moustache and a high forehead, mostly bald apart from a couple of wisps of hair at the sides of his face. Weak and watery eyes behind thick glasses. Dressed in brown herring-bone trousers and a Dilbert-esque short sleeved shirt and tie. Wondered if he might be Dr Robertson from the other end of the corridor.

At this point, The Bird decided to make its presence known from within the shower room.

"Poor old Kiki, what a pity, what a pity!"

The funny looking bloke (let's just call him the FLB) scowled at me but didn't say anything. Apologised and explained that it was Dad's, and that he was on his way back to collect it. I really could be doing without two fines in one day for the same thing that wasn't my fault in the first place. My time at Cambridge, it seemed, was not getting off to a very good start.

I've no idea what I said that might have been a problem, but the FLB started to look visibly angry at that point. He clenched his fists, turned round and headed off down the corridor muttering something to himself about having to have words with his daughter and words with the College authorities.

Headed off on my walk, wondering what all that was about. It seems there are some pretty strange people here in Cambridge.

I'd been back from my walk for about an hour when my phone rang again. It was Dad, all agitated about The Bird.

Asked him if he'd got my message.

He said, "What message?"

Told him I'd left a message with Lewis at seven and then another with Mum at nine, asking them to come back and collect the thing. I've been fined at least once and quite possibly twice now for having an unauthorised pet in College and the longer it remains in my possession the more trouble I'm going to be in.

He said, "No I didn't."

Asked him where he was.

He said, "Gretna Green. I'm on my way. We'll be with you in about four and a half hours or so."

Going to try and find some lunch now. The College doesn't provide lunch on Sundays so I'll probably have to go into town to get something. I rather suspect that Lewis and Carla are behind this incident with The Bird.

5:30pm.

Visit this afternoon from my College "parent," Luke Maxwell, who is a third year physicist.

The Bird told him to wipe his feet and shut the door.

He said to me, "Don't let the College staff see you with that. They'll slap you with a fine for having an unauthorised pet in College."

I said that they already had. Told him about my encounter with the Porter and then with the FLB.

He said, "So you've met Wingnut then."

"Wingnut!" said The Bird. "Pop goes the Wingnut!"

Luke explained that Wingnut is the bat-eared Porter who had knocked on my door first. Apparently he's always bad tempered, bureaucratic, a stickler for the rules, and rigid and inflexible about everything. "Any of the other Porters would have offered to find a cage and look after that bird of yours for a few hours until your father could come and collect it." He wasn't able to tell me who the FLB is though. Said he could be one of the Fellows or possibly someone's father.

He told me a bit about matriculation tomorrow. Said that as well as my suit and tie I'll also need to wear a gown. Offered to lend me his. Apparently it all takes about two hours or so and culminates with drinks afterwards.

Dad, Mum, Carla and Lewis turned up at about half past four to collect The Bird.

Asked them how come it had ended up in my possession. I was pretty scunnered at this particular turn of events.

Dad said, "That's what I'd like to know."

Mum said, "Lewis, I think you'd better explain yourself."

Turns out that last night, while Mum and I were helping Dad and auntie Dinah into bed, Carla and Lewis had put The Bird, who was too plastered to object, into Lewis's night bag. Then when they were returning me to College, Lewis took his night bag with him and offloaded The Bird underneath my bed while I wasn't looking.

That explains everything. It also explains the funny noise that was coming from under my bed as I was drifting off to sleep last night. It was the same kind of gurgling noise that said bird had been making at the dinner table last night having got totally plastered.

Dad said, "Well Carla, Lewis, you're both grounded for that for the rest of the month."

Mum said, "Go easy on them, honey. You've got yourself to blame as much as them. You were too drunk to notice what they were up to, after all."

I said, "Wait a minute, Mum. Are you in on this as well? Is that why Dad didn't call me until he got to Gretna?"

Mum said, "Absolutely. Your father knows how strongly I feel about alcohol. Losing your brother to a drunk driver, it never gets any easier, and that's why I never allow the stuff in the house." Her voice was breaking. "So you can imagine how painful it was for me to see your auntie Dinah plying your father with booze last night, and him giving in just like that. Then when I heard that you had Kiki, I decided it was a good opportunity to teach him a lesson. I decided I wasn't going to say a word about her to him until he actually noticed. Which just happened to be at the service station at Gretna Green."

Poor old Dad. He looked like he wished a hole would open up in the floor and swallow him. Carla and Lewis were in stitches, but I felt a bit sorry for him. And a bit annoyed that I hadn't been consulted about this particular adventure first. Plus there was the issue of the fine.

Dad agreed to take care of it. As they were heading off he popped into the Porters' Lodge to try and set the record straight and assure them that he was taking The Bird off the premises with immediate effect. Wingnut refused to budge an inch, insisted that the fine would still have to be paid, but reluctantly agreed to accept payment from Dad instead of me. The Bird had the last word though as they headed out of the Porters' Lodge.

"Wingnut!" it said. "Pop goes the Wingnut!"

11pm.

I have had a Bird-free evening! Oh the sweet, sweet sound of silence of not being told every five minutes to blow my nose and shut the door and open my books at page six, because pop goes the weasel.

Meeting this evening where the second and third year NatScis (as we Natural Sciences students are called) told us all about our options for the first year. We've got to choose three courses from Biology of Cells, Chemistry, Computer Science, Earth Sciences, Evolution and Behaviour, Materials Science, Physics and Physiology of Organisms. Plus either Maths or Mathematical Biology. I'll be doing Maths and Physics of course, plus Chemistry and either Computer Science or Earth Sciences or Materials Science. I'll have to sleep on it.

After the meeting I came back to my room, where I met up with my neighbour across the corridor from me. A psychology student from Lancaster by the name of Fiona Tipperlong. She's really witty and friendly, and good looking too—long flowing light brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, a really warm and welcoming smile. I think I'm going to look forward to getting to know her.

Turns out that the FLB was her father. Apparently he's an ornithologist like my dad.

I asked her if he was OK, he seemed a bit upset about something this morning.

She laughed and said, "Oh don't worry about that. Dad can get a bit melodramatic at times. He's got this ridiculous story about some field trip or other up in the Hebrides that he was on when he was doing his PhD, and he took it into his head that you and that parrot of yours somehow reminded him of it."

Asked her what she meant.

She said, "He claims that he was accosted by a gang of four kids and a parrot who beat him over the head, pushed him into a puffin burrow and made off with his boat, then a few hours later he was taken prisoner by some criminal gang or other. The bit about the criminal gang is true enough—there was some kind of gun running operation going on in the area at the time and they didn't take kindly to stray bird watchers intruding on their turf—but the bit about the kids is just hokey as far as I can tell. It was the middle of May after all, and one does not simply encounter gangs of kids on remote uninhabited islands in the middle of May when they're all supposed to be doing their exams. Besides, he was tanked up to the eyeballs on morphine for weeks after he was rescued while he was recovering in hospital, so it's quite possible that he could have hallucinated the whole thing."

It was only after I re-read my diary entry from last night that what she'd said started to sink in.

Her father's ridiculous morphine-fuelled story was almost exactly word for word the same as the ridiculous alcohol-fuelled story that Dad and auntie Dinah came out with yesterday!

Must look up Tauri-Hessia on the map.