I got a memory from Facebook in the morning: it showed us, L. and me, standing nonchalantly next to the Chronophage, the famous monster-clock of Corpus Christi College. We haven’t been on King’s Parade for ages; so, we decided to take a walk (thanks to the slightly longer days) via Trumpington St to the centre.

We were a bit goofy with timing, and instead of starting our wanderings earlier, went out when it was getting dusky already: I can’t say that it spoiled our walk, but it certainly added to it some pensiveness.

We passed by Gabor Cossa Antiques, an old and shabby antique shop on Trumpington St. (I read somewhere that the first owner moved to Cambridge from Norfolk—I forgot the actual place—during WWII, and remained here ever since.) The shop was closed, of course, yet lit up, and the display with Wedgewood pieces, cracked Hackwood plates, Worcester jags, and faded Copeland bone china cheered us a little bit. It was necessary, because all the way along everything was dim and dark—empty Fitzwilliam Museum, closed Loch Fyne restaurant, absolutely desolate colleges, Pembroke, Peterhouse, and St. Catherine’s, and deserted Fitzbillies with half-empty windows left with marmalade and macaroons only.

It got even worse on King’s Parade: nobody was there except the Chronophage, who was enjoying himself devouring time on its own. And the fenced-off Market Square looked even more desolate in contrast to the plastic Christmas Tree next to the Guildhall.

We felt doomed, and only the silly screams of teens (I’ve always found them endearing) revived our mood a bit. It feels as if Cambridge is hibernating and is dreaming about something dreary, and you desperately want it to wake up.