City of dreaming spires

City of dreaming spires. There’s snotty Oxford, grotty Oxford, potty Oxford – and us, grockles in Oxford, eager to re-explore the ancient and calm delights of the dreaming spires from a room in an ancient and calm college. We parked in St Clement’s and trundled our way past the not-quite 24/7 Sainsbury’s, over the bridge, the turgid Isis flowing beneath, the homeless gathered above, to the gate of the College, named after Mary, whore turned saint, and to its venerable college porter. Who gave us our keys and said – breakfast in college is cash only and your room, there’s a lift, for suitcases, not for people no more, is back. Back, past the boathouse, across the turgid Styx, no, Isis, back past the homeless, smoking spitty rollies – we sniffed longingly – to the modern brick block next to the not-quite 24/7 Sainsbury’s. Disappointed, not dismayed, we found our way around the not-quite 24/7 customers drinking beer on the block’s steps through the front door to the lift. Which contained two chairs, orange upholstery, broken wooden arms, and a black bin bag, full. Of what? The lift doesn’t reach the top floor, anyway, so we carried our suitcases up the five flight stone stairs smelling cleanly and pungently of disinfectant, into a corridor boasting a serviceable carpet, past the Toilet, to our Twin Standard Room discounted (?) rate £69.00, without breakfast. Oh, good, through the lovely wide window we can see our car. Keep an eye on it overnight. Two beds, not matching, two desk lamps, one poised on ancient fridge, one poised on ancient wooden desk etched intriguingly in blue biro with ‘Hannah’ and incised by penknife, ‘Richard’. Taylor’s toiletries and carefully folded towels (small, two per person) are a posh touch. Instructions. ‘Ring lodge for extra blanket. A night-watchman will provide’. One mirror, in the niche containing the chipped enamel sink with small strip light above, ‘Chas was ‘ere 2010’ faintly pencilled on the surround, panders to our vanity. I feel youthful. Déjà vue. Joyous. I have returned to my study days in the 1960s. Literally? Apprehension. Where is the en suite? Anxiety. There is no en suite. Sashay sexily down the corridor to the Toilet. ‘Toilet’ is what it said, and Toilet is what we get. Unisex showers (two), unisex lavatories (two), unisex basins, ‘Theses (sic) basins are not for washing clothes’(four), partitions to hide one’s modesty, but not one’s legs nor, if one is very tall, one’s head. And we have no pyjamas. Alarm. Yes, we have no pyjamas. Nor no dressing gown neither. Panic. Sprint back. Search the cupboards. Hurrah. A dressing gown. All is not lost. A Primark dressing gown. With a tail. And feet inscribed, right and left, or is that left and right, ‘Cheeky’ and ‘Monkey’. Hysteria.  Too big. Shame. Next day we leave it behind with a grateful note explaining why we haven’t stolen it. But search the room and you will find faintly scratched, ‘’Cas was In, 2012’, in token of two grockles’ appreciation of grotty, snotty, potty, dreaming spires Oxford.