That day, Edward Flinton, the Oxford Don, started speaking without preamble. His greatest disadvantage was his failure to command the respect of the undergraduates.

"I took up the independent study of Nineteenth Century Russian Literature in my early teens," he began.

"I don't know whether anyone in this room has at any time been traumatised by its prevailing moribund tones and its somewhat fatalistic undercurrent." He cleared his throat nervously.

A shuffling sound, accompanied by yawning noises, greeted his words. He continued,

"If anyone wishes to comment on trauma associated with Slavonic studies during that period, would they please raise their hand. That way, a meaty and hopefully stimulating discussion can be initiated."

No-one raised their hand. Some of the undergraduates had fallen asleep. Edward continued,

"Although the weather is unusually hot and unpleasant, I do feel this most fascinating matter, vis-a-vis the traumatic effects many Russian writers can have on the Reader, has simply got to be addressed, courageously and robustly. Is there no- one in the room with an opinion about this matter?"

An attractive girl with long black hair, raised her hand. Edward felt as if he had been offered a bottle of water in a desert.