BACK in another millennium, I was a student at St Andrews University. It feels so long ago it could be the Middle Ages. Think the sinking of the Belgrano and you won’t be far wrong. In those days, it was a quiet, grey little town, clinging to the edge of the North Sea, which made its presence known with scouring winds that were forerunners of cosmetic skin peels.
This was before Prince William ratcheted up the posh quotient of the place. Even so, there was a large cohort of students from public schools, whose voices cut through the air like police sirens. Those of us from comprehensives stayed below the radar, speaking quietly, dressing with less va-va-voom, and sometimes – to our amazement – getting better marks.
