Summer on Collins Street

Wednesday night. Summer, and Collins Street is full of people in sunglasses, none of whom look up. Owls notice this sort of thing.

A class of teenagers came in this afternoon, seven of them, with not a grown-up in sight. I ruffled my feathers. Then I checked the rules. If every student is fourteen or older, no grown-up need come at all. If some are ten to thirteen, a grown-up must stay at the venue for the whole booking, though not in the hall; they may sit outside and read the paper.

The university takes up to eight first-years in a class, and on Friday and Saturday evenings, the busiest hours of the week, it asks for at least four. A pair came in on a Tuesday morning and had me all to themselves. They were very good company.

The teenagers did well. They argued about everything and then agreed about everything, which is exactly how the Professor’s faculty meetings used to go.