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It was strange to be back in London’s King’s Cross. Last time I was here, I had gone to a tattoo parlour opposite the old Scala cinema, and a man inscribed a rose on my upper left arm.

This Monday, more than 25 years later, I was in a minicab with my wife, my oldest daughter India, and several large suitcases.

Dinwiddy House came into view. This was the hall of residence where India would live for her first year at university. It was a glass cube. Like most university buildings, it was hideous.

We heaved the luggage out…

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