Yesterday I attended a graduation ceremony. For various reasons, I have been at a few of these over the years, and my year spent as secretary of the student union in Newcastle gave me a certain over familiarity with the ways of university practice. Deep down they all aspire to being pseudo medieval houses of elitism and donnish wit.

The ceremony marked the ascension from graduand to graduate of my girlfriend. She worked very hard to get there, and it was a suitable way to gain closure on her student life. It was also a turgid ceremony with lots of names and dutiful applause. Before it started, I asked the woman next to me who she was there for. Later on she returned the compliment by asking me whether I had managed to spot my daughter among the graduates. Daughter! I'm only 32, and although I was wearing a suit and looking reasonably mature, surely I don't look old enough to have sired even a 21 year old, though my girlfriend is older than that. I suppose that some folks in council estates somewhere may give life at the younger ages, as indeed do some wretched toffs, who undoubtedly do a better job of hiding their shame, but this was a fairly middle class ceremony at a self-important uni. I am not someone's dad!

Later on I changed into younger looking clothes. Then I felt old and knackered when I did more of the house moving which is nearly finished. Doing it in one big go would have been easier.