The Beginning: North London, Present Day

So, having decided that a stationary life of reasonable prosperity and routine was far too simple, I had recently left a job that afforded me not only mental stimulation and friendly interchange (as well as a few interesting little problems that may or may not have involved the Boston and Cambridge Police Departments), but also enough money to pay rent, sleep and buy books and take a stab at doing the job I had always wanted---becoming a professional student.  With my house and cats in good hands for the next year, I had managed to get accepted to a highly-accredited institution and took my leave of the western Atlantic shores. 

I had intended to rent some rooms from a family but, upon arrival, I learned that they had decided to move to the country "in order to raise the children in a proper environment".  I was willing to overlook their abandoning me in an apparently improper environment when I learned that I had full run of the house for the same rent--at least, until the property sold.  "Which could be weeks, dear, or it could be months, in this economy.  Heaven's knows we're stuck with it until we can shift it, so we'd be ever so happy to know that you're here, keeping the drunks away from the stoop."  And with these heart-warming wishes, I was left to my own devices.

A week after my arrival, I made the grand journey from Stoke Newington to school for the first time, and was directed to the History Department, which was on the top floor of the building.  "It's just been added on,"  said the woman at the information desk, batting her overly made-up lashes, "They've not got a lift up to there, yet, so take that lift up to the seventh floor, and then you'll have to walk up the last flight."  She neglected to mention that of the four elevators in the lobby, only on was working, and fitfully at that, so it was almost fifteen minutes before I arrived at the door to the History Department (luckily, in my first-day jitters, I'd arrived half an hour early).  

I sat down at one of the state-of-the-art portable plywood and cork desks and tried to appear invisible. There was an older man sitting a row away from me who was glowering at me over his shoulder, so I was fairly sure my plan wasn't working. Trying now for an air of intellectual indifference, I reached into my bag and pulled out my date planner, flipping to the date and trying to think of something worth writing. He man sighed and turned back to his book, while I rooted around for a pen. As I began doodling around the page of my next birthday, a small girl with curly dark hair and needlessly pointy-toed boots clattered into the room, the charms on her bag jingling in syncopation to her footfalls. The man gave her a similarly withering glare, and I couldn't help but smile, both at his mow comic anger and in relief that it was no longer directed at me. As he turned back, his eyes didn't even pick me out from the cork dividers around me. I had achieved invisibility. I turned the pages on my date book, looking for a day with enough significance to warrant a note. Alighting on my father's birthday, I bent over the page, only to find that there was no longer any ink flowing into the pen. Gritting my teeth in irritation, I gave the pen an overly-demonstrative shake that sent droplets of ink splattering across the page and the desk and the pen cap flying back over my head, where it hit the wall and skittered across the floor. Instinctively, I ducked from the gaze of the man, whose head was already turning back in my direction, trying at the same time to see where the damned cap had stopped.
"I think you dropped this." I turned, and found my eyes were on level with a hand, in which was resting my errant pen cap. I reached out, briefly noting that the hand was attached to an arm, which connected it to a torso, all of which was encased in a green sweater.
"Thanks," I mumbled, and looked at the head that was poking out of the top of the sweater. It had a mess of sunshine-brown hair that fell over a pale forehead, and deep brown eyes that were crinkled in a smile.
"Are you here for the imperialism and war seminar?" It was a nice face, with a disarmingly bright smile. As he straightened up, I realized he was fairly tall, almost lanky, wearing some kind of gray tweedy pants. He had a brown leather satchel that I immediately coveted and as he sat down at the desk beside me, I realized I had not yet answered.
"Umm, yeah. You?" I kept it short in order to keep from tripping over my own words.
"I am indeed. Are you in the history department?" He asked, as if to imply he wasn't. Which I could believe. Honestly, he was too good-looking to be an historian.
"I am as of today. Aren't you?" He shook his head, renewing the smile. I grinned back, more out of self-satisfaction than anything else.
"English Department, actually. This class is--well, useful for my dissertation."
"I see."
"I'm Ned, by the way."
"Nice to meet you. Is Ned short for Edward?" He ducked his head and grinned up at me through his lashes.
"Not quite. It's, uh...it's Damien, actually."
"Really? I like that."
"Most people think it's the strangest name they've ever heard."
"Oh, I don't know about that."
"Wait, are you here for the War and Imperialism course?" It was the small dark-haired girl, who was jingling and clacking back towards us. She had a thin voice and I could tell she was an up-talker, despite her question. Her face wrinkled up into a smile, but it wasn't wholly genuine, and therefore made me distinctly nervous.
"Apparently we are." He turned to smile at her as two more people, a man with graying hair and a girl about my age.
"Are you lot here for the War and Imperialism course?" the new girl asked. She was wide-eyed and slender with brown hair and wearing an enormous woolen hat despite the late September heat. She slumped into the chair on my other side and her book bag thumped to the floor. The older man let out an audible huff, rose to his feet and stomped out, letting the door slam behind him.
"Looks like we're already making friends here," the man with gray hair smiled with a slight air of smugness. As he spoke, the door to one of the offices opened and Professor Bryson, the course convener, in a green tweed suit and deafeningly loud green paisley shirt, ushered us inside. Once we had performed the awkward dance of assembling ourselves in the chairs that were crammed into what turned out to be Professor Bryson's office, we began to introduce ourselves. The wide-eyed girl was named Lydia, the man with the gray hair was named Sam, and he had just retired from a career in stock management. The up-talker was named Caroline, and then came Ned's turn. As each person mentioned their name, Professor Bryson ticked off their name on his list.
"Hi," said Ned, to no one in particular, "I'm Ned. I did my undergraduate work at Queen's College in Belfast, and I'm actually studying in the English department, working on the history of literature." Caroline had leaned forward while he spoke, her eyebrows traveling ever further skywards and her smile spreading eagerly across her face.
"Great, thanks, Ned." Said Prof. Bryson, adjusting his glasses and turning to me, "And you are..."
"Hi," I said, trying to find a place to look. "I'm Kip."
"Kim?" Bryson's forehead wrinkled and he squinted at the list in his lap.
"No--Kip. With a 'p'. My full name is Kipling." Why, after 25 years, I really still felt the need to blush over my name was utterly beyond me, but I felt my ears starting to burn.
"Ah yes..." Bryson made a tick on his list, and looked at me with mingled interest and..pity? I looked sideways and saw Ned's eyebrows arching. I made a stab at speech, figuring I had remarkably little to lose.
"I'm studying the First World War, actually. I've been working in archives back home in Boston for a few years and decided to come back to school."
"Well, thank you, Kipling."  Bryson smiled at me as if he had just performed some elaborate ritual in a foreign language and turned back to the group, launching into an explanation of the course.  

The meeting was mercifully brief, and after some brief chat over books and essays, we all began plodding down the endless flights of stairs down to the lobby.  I had started walking with Lydia and Caroline, but soon ended up trailing behind, as they began planning to go out to a club later that night.  

I heard an echo of footsteps behind me and leaned into the railing in the expectation of being passed.

"So, Kipling, eh?"  It was Ned, his satchel over his shoulder and an amused grin slung across his face.

"I told you you're name wasn't that strange."  I said, finding it impossible not to smile back.

"I guess not.  Where did, that is, how--"

"My dad has a killer sense of humor."

"Hmmm...there's a story there, I think."  We reached the lobby and crossed in front to hold the door to the street open for me.  "You free after class on Thursday?"

"Umm--yeah.  I don't see why not."

"Good.  Until then."  And with a final flashing grin, he waved and headed off to the tube station.  

I was still blushing when I got on the bus twenty minutes later.