Abstract
My years at the Institute were split into four often strongly contrasting parts. Primarily, there were the terms at St John's Lodge, the quietly decaying Regency mansion that fitted so appropriately, in its atmosphere, with the evidence of bomb damage still evident elsewhere in London. Secondly, there was the home life my wife Falmai and I had in our one room in Hackney, made exciting and consistently demanding following the birth of our son Jonathan in November 1953. Falmai had taken a degree in English at Bedford College, close to the Institute in Regent's Park, from whose hall of residence I had sometimes left by a back door late on a Sunday night to race for the bus back to Cambridge, to get into college before midnight.
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