Up to now I’d been under the impression that tourist information people are helpful. This was but a delusion. I’ll not trouble you with lengthy explanations of the insufferability of the woman in Cambridge, but to say that we exacted sweet revenge by pocketing handfuls of free vouchers on our way out.

Not a bed in a youth hostel to be found, she’d told us. Not a tiny corner of a janitor’s closet to be had. ‘But aye’, she’d amended - ‘I’ve got a wee little B&B just a wee bit out of town. Just a wee lil walk from here’. By the time that wee lil walk had turned into a 4 mile hike and 3 bus connections later, we were of the mind to relieve the B&B of all its little soaps, shampoos and sugar sachets, and did so willingly.

Our morale was boosted after a charming little open-air version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the Trinity College Gardens, despite the abundance of soppy lovers reciting poetry to each other in the most puke-worthy of fashions.

This closely followed by the ‘coffee-house scholars’ passionately calling for the liberation of the downtrodden working class from their bourgeois oppressors, over a £6 frappe as they polish their Armani cufflinks on their Ralph Lauren sleeves.

We, of course, are the enduring picture of class as we engage in heated debate with some rowdy Pommies in the bicycle hire shop regarding the comparative merits of our respective cricket teams, then have ourselves chased out of the Botanical Gardens for the crime of climbing heritage-listed trees (the plights one must endure in the quest for the lofty goal of getting a good photograph).