I had a pang of recognition on watching The Holdovers, the bittersweet story of a cantankerous classics teacher, an abrasive but bright student and the head cook all forced to remain on campus during a 1970s Christmas break. Over the pond in Shropshire, in the same decade, I had removed myself from the clamour, chaos and midsummer pomp of the final term at my own school. Yes, I could now smoke my head off, grow my hair long and put up Che Guevara posters in my bedroom, but also I found myself marooned – not on campus but at home, a villa near Keele service station with only my hapless parents. It was a dangerous and damaging regression. Mary and I were watching The Holdovers in the blue remembered hills of Shropshire, currently finding favour with aspirational house-buyers in search of the rapidly diminishing stock of still ‘merrie’ English counties...
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