I tend to approach the start of September with a back-to-school seriousness. It is a time I associate with rootling around in drawers for crumpled school uniform, with the smell of fresh notebooks and the phrase “Michaelmas Term”. A time, in short, for noses to resume their positions at the grindstone.
And so, as I hurtled on a train down to a field somewhere in Dorset with a bag full of frivolous garb on the first Thursday of September, I felt the faint thrill of bunking off.
