But a week or so ago, the cold weather first struck its tendrils in my humble cot. My voice, of which I am so fond, was struck down by some malaise, and left me severed from the joy and duty of the Lord’s praises. And so I sat, nursing my throat with honey and water, and heard the bells strike Hail Mary at six, and the college bells summon us to our founding purpose at half past.

Perhaps I am so far gone I know not it tolls for me? No, it’s just a sore throat. But all the same – what have I done to warrant this excommunication? Have I been too much out of key? Too rude to the Director of Music? Too harsh to my seminar fellows? Too lax in my work? The first or the last, but that is not the way of the First and Last.

I am recovered now, and I sang full pelt (my apologies) at Evensong. But meanwhile, I recorded some thoughts.

Capsule coffee

My colleagues have provided a fair bit of inspiration. A previous notebook spoke warmly of some coffee shops in Cambridge, and I too can weigh in. I have little taste in coffee – I take it fairly strong and black, and use it largely because few things are more disgusting at breakfast than water. But I have grown attached to it, for which I am sure there is a medical explanation, and have formed a particular fondness for my little Nespresso machine that sits on its own little table in my room.

It is, in some ways, a ghastly modern thing. There is no conceivable reason why my coffee machine should connect to Wi-Fi. Ordering capsules seems to require this convoluted app process which requires me to log into an account which half the time tells me my password is wrong (it isn’t). The pods are supposed to be recycled in a special bag, which I then have to cart off myself to some processing centre. You see, in the modern world, companies outsource the nuisance of environmental responsibility to you: After all, we’re clearly going to care more about the environment than Nestlé.

All the same, the coffee is strong and black, and comes in espresso, lungo and mug sizes. I may not connect the thing to the internet, but I have connected it to my heart.

Beware the nanny state

Another entertaining drinking experience, also courtesy of my colleagues, came recently at the delightful Champion of the Thames on King Street. I am, for my sins, an incorrigible cider drinker, and sat down with my editor for a pint, and a pork pie. With my flat cap by my side, and my editor in his polo neck, both of us with pint and pork pie, we must have looked like a proper young Labour duo, emulating our proletarian ancestors.

But that drivel I have written is not why I mention this: while waiting for my editor, I spied a packet of cigarettes on the side. I am at peace, more or less, with “Smoking Kills”, “Smoking Orphans your Children”, “Cigarettes murder Babies” etc. – these tend to be verifiable facts. But if you ask me, “Smoking Kills: Stop Now” is a step too far. The government can force the tobacconists to tell me a medical fact, yes, but it seems a bit much for them to start dictating my personal behaviours.

I am not in favour of legalising marijuana or any other scheduled drugs, for reasons I will not delve into. But if we can just state arbitrary positions on the side of a product for sale, why not legalise it, with “Cannabis makes you boring” sprawled across the side. I’d lose the fight, and have to smell the stuff everywhere, but it’s a small mercy.

The daily commute

A lot of my week is spent trudging the same route through Silver Street, between the Sidge and home. As the Summer has now well and truly faded away, and left us in the chilled and wizening clutches of the dying year, do be careful on those pavements. Silver Street is a particular menace. There’s that puddle before the Café, there’s the thinnest of pavements, now girded on one side by moist brick, and the other by a rainwater chasm; then there’s the gatherings of leaves as you turn down Trumpington Street, and those sly little berries outside venerable St Mary’s. Not to mention those punting punters, still so bravely plying their trade. I suppose I’m too obviously disinterested – they never approach me.

But repetition is its own joy. We cruise through Cambridge from day to day, hopping over leaves and berries, and forbidding all with such and such a face. Slow down, Cambridge is gorgeous in autumn.