Fresh letter from the Spires ... Cacophony of coughing at students' matriculation ceremony ... Viral spray covers everything in Covid ravaged landscape ... Shift work for the vice-chancellor ... Barely Legal reports
Here, in this cobbled lane, Prince Rupert rallied his horseman for one final charge, and it was here, in this college hall, that Charles I held his last parliament.
From this church steeple, they say, a watchman first spied Fairfax's besieging horde, and on this meadow, a thousand Cavaliers gave their lives for the king (plus the right to wear funny hats).
That was back then. Today's Dreaming Spires don't value blue blood like they used to.
Take Mawkish Hall, for example, an immense pile of gothic finials and deer parks. Since time out of mind, the student common room has housed a portrait of His or Her Current Maj – on which each proto-judge, MP or banker casts his teary, teenaged eye while he makes the loyal toast.
But the ghost of Cromwell stalks these cloisters. At the start of term, his agents stacked out a Mawkish Hall student meeting, like Round Heads muscling their way into parliament, and forced Lizzy's picture to a vote.
For a second time, democracy sent the monarch's head to the block: Her Maj's portrait was taken down.
By sun up, the Daily Mail was frothing at the mouth: 'Dreaming Spires students betray Queen and Country!!!' 'PM slams 'absurd' student decision to overthrow Queen!!' and so on.
Monarchists are wasting their time, if you ask me. Today's generation came of age with Prince Andrew's miracle sweat glands and darling Diana throwing up her dinner on the Crown. We can't be won over to the royal cause.
But, even if there aren't sword-swinging royalists in the streets anymore, this university is still awash with carnage - of a different sort.
Every half an hour, another NHS ambulance tears down the high street. The GPs are booked out for weeks.
And everywhere you go, in every library, cafe and dining hall, everyone is coughing. No masks, no social distancing - just coughs.
This is what freedom sounds like, Downing Street tells us. The sound is especially loud at large public events - like last weekend, at our matriculation ceremony.
Matriculation is a mediaeval dress-up game to congratulate new students for being rich enough to make it here. Gowns, mortarboards and dark suits are mandatory, like a graduation but before you've sat a single exam.
So if you end up failing everything, you still get the pretty pictures your parents paid for.
The main event happens in an 18th century theatre, which can fit a few hundred at a time. That's a problem, because thousands of students start here every year.
The solution? Each college matriculates in its own shift, lasting 10 minutes. There are nearly 40 colleges to get through, so the proceedings begin at dawn and end after dusk.
It's particularly hard on the Vice Chancellor, who has to show up for every college's time slot, intone the same words in Latin and give the same starry-eyed pep talk.
When my college reached the theatre, it was standing-room only - gown against gown, and barely anyone wearing a mask.
All at once, her Chancellorship wafted in, a little page boy scurrying behind with the edge of her golden robes in his hands. This was, I later heard, the twelfth time that day the VC had done the ritual.
She pronounced her Latin with an incomprehensible Brogue, and then came her speech.
It began with the obligatory line (in Boris' Britain, all speeches start this way): How wonderful we can meet in person again now everything is back to normal. Now the pandemic is mostly over.
Up the back, someone started coughing.
How honoured you should feel to join this noble institution. How heavy the burden on your shoulders &c.
Another cougher joined in.
How you must all respect the traditions of academic freedom & debate. How you should learn to disagree well.
A chorus of coughers had formed, one of them right behind the VC's lectern.
Her Chancellorship started to speed up: How quickly your time will pass here. How eager you should be to make the most of it.
By now, it was like a cuckoo clock striking the hour - new coughers popping up on each beat, alternating coughs in a dazzling rhythm.
The VC got faster and faster. How-you-will-make-your-mark-on-this-place-for-generations-to-come. How-optimistic-you-should-all-feel-about-solving-the-problems-of-this-century.
She finished in record time, egged on by her accompanists, and strapped on her face mask as she left the stage. I felt sorry for her, since she had 25 more speeches to give that day. I felt sorry for myself as well - and everyone else who had been bathed in viral spray.
It didn't help that, later that evening, Britain recorded its highest daily COVID rate since January. But I suppose, as students, our ancient privileges still come with ancient duties: queen, country and prime minister demand our sacrifice, for normality's sake. Who are we to refuse?