After dinner today I walk around the grounds of my hall. For days now, I have been making quick trips to and from the dining hall, walking hurriedly back to my room after meals, sometimes holding an apple, occasionally nodding to the few people I meet in the corridor.

I have not met many, yet. We seem to have entirely different schedules and activities, and I do not feel like attempting to take part in the numerous parties various people will hold at various times of the night.

The grounds are not large, but it is nice to get away from the noise confined in the small space of the dining area. At one small corner I discover a little outhouse, covered with ivy creepers that have turned a robust, rich red with the arrival of the autumn breeze. The leaves rest gently against the roof, a fringe to a sun-kissed skin.

I listen to the scruff of gravel against my shoes as I tread quietly around the buildings. Someone has placed three soft armchairs by a doorway - a secret rendevous point for the tired accommodation staff? I imagine the desk porters sitting there at night, drinking tea from mismatched cups.

I walk slowly up the carpet of tarmac, think about getting geraniums for my room.

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