The centre of Cambridge at the weekend rather resembles Oxford Street. True, there are the more obvious landmarks unique to the city, not least the river with its punts, and King’s College, the world’s preferred source of Christmas choirboys. But away from those is an extremely busy shopping area with all the expected names of the day. HMV, Boots, Costa Coffee, Starbucks, Borders, and so on. I’m gratified to see that Heffers, the large bookshop synonymous with Cambridge, is still going despite being run by its old Oxford rivals Blackwells. It still has the old green-on-black Faber-like logo which looks a little dated (70s to early 80s), but dated is only what people call something from another time that has yet to achieve period charm. The 80s get better and better every year.
What is distinctly Cambridgey is the bicycles. Far more of them than Oxford. They’re nicer for a city than cars, obviously, though there’s a couple of bicycle-related aspects that slightly irritate me during my brief stay.
One is the ambiguity of the pedestrianised streets. Some streets are people only, but there’s some which allow bikes to pass through, and it’s not always clear which is which. On crowded weekends, people spill across the middle regardless because there’s plenty of people about and no cars. Sometimes the road area is the same level as the pavement, adding to the confusion as to whether one should look out for bikes or not. This means that one often hears cyclists ringing their bells to avoid running people over, and pedestrians constantly have to be on their guard.
Ringing a bell is not enough for some. A stern lady in her 70s with cut glass vowels cycles through one crowded area shouting “THIS IS A ROAD! THIS IS A ROAD!” She does this all the way along the street.
The other irritating aspect of the bicycles’ domination is the mirror of this scenario: cyclists taking to pavements in the normal streets. The ones that do allow cars. A couple of times I have to dodge bikes on the pavement while trying not to fall into the road to be hit by a car. On this occasion it’s clearly the cyclists that are in the wrong, though the bike-friendly air of the city must make it hard for them to resist going where the hell they like.
Outside King’s College, a young man is holding a white cardboard sign saying ‘FREE HUGS’. I presume he’s a student.
I don’t take him up on his offer, suspecting an ulterior motive. Perhaps something other than hugs is being advertised, or it’s one of those tiresome hidden camera stunts. Which is a shame, as I can never get enough hugs myself. I certainly prefer hugs to kisses on cheeks. With the latter, I never know if the person I’m meeting expects a peck on one cheek or both, or even on the lips. Or whether I should kiss them or they should kiss me, or both. And who should go first? It’s a very London dilemma. Frankly I’m surprised the Casualty wards of London aren’t stuffed with victims of forehead-collision who attempt this social manoeuvre without a stunt double.
At dinner, I mention the Free Hugs Boy to Michael Bywater. He remarks that by offering his services for free, the young man is ruining the hugs economy and skewing the hugs market.
He is hogging the hugging.
In Tomorrow’s Entry: Which BBC Breakfast DJ is related to me by marriage? Which Newsnight presenter phones me with career advice? And just how much does anyone really want to read about anyone else’s life: a biography publisher’s expert opinion.
