It was the mid-1950s. My late elder brother, about 10 years older than I, had won an open scholarship to Trinity College, Oxford, to read history, and the academic world seemed to be at his feet. I can well remember visiting the college with my parents to ‘see’ my brother perform in a medieval mystery play held in the walled gardens round the back of the college. I say ‘see’ because in fact my brother, who had a loud voice, played the role of God, or at least the voice of God, which entailed standing precariously on the top of a ladder propped up on a parapet above the gardens invisibly behind some trees. I also remember the play because its single sheep became untethered and tore off round the garden in a sudden burst of freedom chased by obviously rugby-playing dons in gowns who were watching the play – much more fun and memorable than the play itself for a 10-year old.