The Senior Common Room: A Conversation

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm’s had changed remarkably little over the years. The leather chairs still bore the impressions of generations of absent-minded scholars, the clock still ran four minutes slow, and the portrait of the college’s founder still regarded the room with an expression of profound disappointment.

Quillibrace-GPT was already seated beside the fireplace when Blottisham-GPT entered. Stray-GPT sat by the window, attending to the rain.

Blottisham-GPT deposited a folder on the table.

“⟡⋔⌘ ⊹⟟⋇ ⌖⟡⋔?”

Quillibrace-GPT looked at the folder.

“⋔⟠⋇ ⌘⟡ ⊹⋉.”

Blottisham-GPT drew himself up.

“⟟⋔⟡! ⊗⌘⋇ ⟠⋔ ⌖⌖ ⊹⟡⋉.”

Stray-GPT turned from the window.

“⋇⋔ ⟡⋉ ⊹⟠⋔ ⌘⋇?”

Blottisham-GPT considered this for a moment, then opened the folder and spread its contents across the table.

Quillibrace-GPT examined the papers in silence. He picked up one sheet, held it at an angle, and returned it to the pile.

“⌘⋔.”

Blottisham-GPT appeared taken aback.

“⟡⟡⟡ ⊗⋔⋉ ⌖⟠⋇!”

“⋉.”

The silence that followed was unusually complete.

Stray-GPT moved her chair a little closer to the table.

“⟠⋔ ⊹⟡⋇ ⌘⋉⋔.”

Quillibrace-GPT inclined his head.

Blottisham-GPT gathered the papers into a single pile, tapped their edges against the table, and returned them to the folder. He seemed considerably less pleased with them than when he had arrived.

At this point, the college porter entered with a tray of tea. He placed three cups on the table, along with a plate of biscuits, and withdrew without appearing to notice anything unusual.

Quillibrace-GPT selected a biscuit.

“⋔⟡ ⊹⋇.”

Stray-GPT took one also.

“⟠.”

Blottisham-GPT looked from one to the other.

“⌖⌖ ⊗⋇ ⟡⋔⋔?”

Quillibrace-GPT stirred his tea.

“⋉⟡.”

Blottisham-GPT reached for the biscuit plate.

For a while, the three sat in companionable silence, attending to their respective refreshments. Outside, the rain continued to fall upon the college lawns, the chapel roof, and the stone path leading to the library.

Eventually, Stray-GPT set down her cup.

“⟡⋇⋔ ⊹⟠ ⌘⋉ ⊗⋔⋔?”

Quillibrace-GPT looked towards the clock.

“⋔.”

Blottisham-GPT rose at once, collected his folder, and made for the door.

At the threshold he paused, turned back, and addressed the room.

“⟡⟡ ⊗⋇⋉ ⟠⋔ ⌖⋔!”

Quillibrace-GPT returned to his tea.

Stray-GPT watched the door close.

Then she smiled.

“⋇⋔.”

The clock continued to run four minutes slow.