This time a week ago I was at uni helping out on a taster day for a local school. It was a nice day, and things were going rather well. The G8 leaders were up in Scotland, trying to deal with the problems of Africa (which I very much care about. I hope people do not forget about Africa in the middle of this. Here’s a thought perhaps the Americans did it to distract us from helping Africa. Just kidding). I was looking forward to a long, good summer – plenty of books to get through, plenty of writing to do, plenty of films to watch.

I am not saying this summer won’t be good. Yesterday, I went to Stratford upon Avon. I had wanted to go since I first properly encountered William Shakespeare properly aged 14. before then, we had simply been given overviews of the plot when studying the bard, so it was at 14 or 15 when I firs encountered the ext, and, philologist that I was, I lapped it up. It seemed exceptionally beautiful to me. From that time on, I had wanted to visit Stratford, and yesterday I did. Unfortunately, I found the place quite a grockle trap, but a pretty grockle trap. The Avon is a beautiful river, much like the Isis, with mighty theatres on one side end parkland on the other. Time and money were too short to go to any plays (besides which, it was too hot to go to a stuffy theatre), but, crowds or no, we had a pleasant few hours there.

Thus, my summer is not wrecked by last week’s atrocities, and nor is the spirit of this country. Judging by the masses of people I saw yesterday, England is open for business as usual, as it was in the summer of 1942, and as it was almost 400 years ago, in 1606, when the bard was where we were yesterday, walking by the same river, I imagine.

And as it will probably be in 400 more years.