Polly by Freya North Page B

such an order! I won’t tell the juniors to do so as they’re far too impressionable, and I can’t instruct the freshers and sofs because I doubt they know who Keats is. I think the seniors feel liberated, relieved in some way – given
carte blanche
to shake off the spectre of hallowed literature, to praise nature in whatever terms they choose. They’re picking some excellent ones too.
    As you know, I don’t believe in God, but I have to credit and thank some
thing;
whoever, whatever. As the fall has taken hold, it is as if some divine, huge power is laying their hand over the land in a slow, magical sweeping. Initially, just the fingertips of some of the leaves on a few of the trees were touched with crimson. Within a week, every tree had a flourish of copper or brass amongst the remaining green – as if a whole branchful had been given a celestial handshake. Now the maples are cloaked in incredible swathes of colours from the highest yellow to the deepest maroon; so vivid and bright that I don’t know whether to weep or wear sunglasses. No mists, no mellow fruitfulness; instead an amazing clarity, crystal-clean light and a clear breeze. This land is rich indeed, for the leaves are made of gold, of rubies, of garnets. Ho! Sorry to prattle on in such syrupy terms, but I really have fallen under the spell of this place.
    The only drawback is the Rodin Syndrome. Now that I have experienced the fall in Vermont, I fear any other autumn anywhere else will surely seem second-rate and mediocre. Rather like all other sculpture once the work of Rodin is known.
    God, I wish you were here. It is absolutely beautiful but it would be even better if I could share it. I mean, I go jogging with Lorna and cycling with Clinton (I’m quite fit now – you’d love my tight butt) (that’s American for firm bum) but what I crave is a long, loping walk with you.
    Damn – time and paper run out on me – and my juniors are about to have the surprise of their lives: they’re about to meet Chaucer and, while they adore my dulcet tones, I’m not sure what they’ll make of my Middle English accent.
    I love you, Max-i-mine. My own
‘verray parfit gentil knight’,
I miss you. Write soon,
    Polly.
    PS. pis send more Marmite – Kate’s gone crazy for it and is using it in everything – Bogey’s food included.
    â€˜Yeah, hello?’
    â€˜Chip?’
    â€˜Jen! How are you? Hey, it’s great to hear from you. I was going to call you only there’s a hockey tournament soon and suddenly the whole team have gotten aches and sprains.’
    â€˜Hey, that’s OK, I’ve been pretty busy too.’
    â€˜So how’s it going?’
    â€˜Good, good – how’s Hubbardtons?’
    â€˜Pretty much the same. I think tomorrow’ll be Mountain Day.’
    â€˜Hey – isn’t that classified information? Wish I could be there.’
    â€˜You don’t have some day similar, in London England?’
    â€˜Nope. Nothing that comes close. Something called Mufti when the kids can wear their own clothes – but that’s only the last day of term.’
    â€˜Some way off.’
    â€˜Sure is. You know, it’s kinda weird living in someone else’s apartment. There’re these crazy women above me – one is old, Swiss and nutty as hell, the other’s an out-and-out psycho. I haven’t managed to come in without one or other noticing – so I’m either sworn at or asked the date, time and year and the whereabouts of some guy called Franz.’
    â€˜Sounds entertaining?’
    â€˜I guess. I think I prefer being Dorm Mother to ten girls though. So, have you met Polly Fenton?’
    â€˜Er, Polly Fenton. No, no, I haven’t as yet.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜No, I’ve been real busy.’
    â€˜Sure. She’s pretty.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    â€˜I met her boyfriend and he showed