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 and hawked it inside. Now the fun started. Like a prison, Dinwiddy House has endless security doors but no signs. We asked the way from at least half-a-dozen Chinese students before we finally got to India's room.
Actually, room is a misnomer. It was a rather nasty pod. The mattress was grubby. The wardrobe doors were hanging off. The drawers were missing their knobs. The en suite shower had shed several tiles.
I listed the room's defects on the form supplied and marched to the accommodation office. A slim Barbadian woman with gold hoop earrings stood behind the desk.
"I'm not impressed," I said, handing her the list, especially considering what I had paid for the room.
A pair of dark brown eyes gazed sadly at me.
"Once everyone's settled we'll turn to repairs," she said, sounding like Prunella Scales in Fawlty Towers.
"Couldn't the room have been fixed before term started?"
"We've been very busy," she said, faking a smile.
In other words, would I just be grateful and stop complaining.
It was time to change the subject. We had not lugged any bedding from Enniskillen. Where did we go, I asked, to get the bedding kit?
"Go to C block stairwell at six o'clock with ?100," she said gracelessly, taking the complaints sheet from the student behind me. I stomped off like a peeved old colonel.
An hour later we stood in a queue in Woolworths, our shopping trolley laden with pots and pans. India was in self-catering accommodation.
The man in front of us presented the cashier with a bag stuffed with sweets from the Pic'n'Mix stand.
"Two ninety-one," she said.
"I've only 83p," he said, holding out a fistful of coppers. "Tell you what," he continued, "take out the red ones. I don't like them red ones."
We waited for ten excruciating minutes while the cashier unloaded the bag. London has always had its eccentric inhabitants; what has changed is the number of them.
At six I presented myself at C block stairwell in Dinwiddy House. There was no one around. I went to the porter's lodge to complain.
"Course there weren't no one selling bedding," he said. "They sold out two days ago."
"Why didn't the woman in the office tell me?"
"This is a student hall of residence. What d'you expect? Efficiency?"
I was annoyed but also, frankly, I was delighted. If there was no bedding, India would have to come back with us to the house where we were staying. We could postpone cutting the umbilical cord for one more night.
I returned to the room. "You'll have to come home with us." I could barely conceal my delight.
She frowned. "No way." If she didn't stay, how would she ever make friends? "I'll sleep under my coat," she said.
The three of us went to the porter's lodge. I complained again.
"I think I can get the loan of a duvet for her," said the porter.
"Go on," said India. "I'll sort it out."
Her life without us was about to start. "Goodbye," we said. Brief kisses were exchanged. We left.
Outside, rain was pouring. There were derelicts and whores sheltering in doorways. We should have sheltered as well, but we felt too depressed to linger. We just wanted to escape to the far side of London, to our friend Gina and her warm house.
We schlepped through the wet down Pentonville Road, then stopped at the bottom of it to cross. My wife was so wet that even her lipstick was running.
"It's amazing," I said, in my best cheer-up voice. "We met all those years ago, and now, 19 years later, here we are, dropping our daughter off at university. We'd never have guessed then that it would end like this. Would we?"
She bit her lip and shrugged, as if to say no, we wouldn't have guessed, and if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it.
The green man flickered on the traffic lights. We hurried across.
"Don't you really think it's amazing, how it's turned out?"
My wife was silent and stone-like. She would not be drawn. We hurried towards King's Cross underground. As we stepped in, air gusted into our faces. It was hot, and smelt of diesel.
