It was a Thursday evening on November 22 in 1963. I’d graduated that summer with a mediocre BA Hons from the University of Birmingham. I’d had some adventures after that—see this post for example. There was lots more. I’d earned a few quid selling ice-cream at a holiday resort in Clacton, had a brief fling there, went back to Galatea on and off and ended up lodging chastely with an unwelcoming Judy, who became my bride the following year.
But in November ’63, I’d moved back to my old lodgings near the university, got a job teaching, and seemed to have my career set.
A friend told me about the open evenings at the Uni’s Anglican Chaplaincy. All were welcome, you didn’t have to be any kind of Christian, let alone an Anglican. This was the bait. At some point in the event, usually a lecture or a sale of books, the Chaplain himself would appear, and chat with anyone friendly-looking over tea and biscuits.
we danced to this again and again …