W1, where all the publishers sat in their white buildings and offices with glass signs, was close to Soho. Belting her red coat tight, Leah dodged the bulleting rain, making a bee-line for Soho which was close by. London at 9.30am was markedly different from the panic attack of pre 9am work stress. Hordes of dark-suited men and women with tight, slicked hairstyles and power shoes carpeted the streets. Now, it felt like the street sweepers and bin collectors were playing leisurely with the space they had left behind.

She found an unassuming, non-chain coffee shop, stocked with a couple of smiley Polish waitresses and a decent list of herbal teas. A folksy female singer was quietly pouring her heart out over the radio. It was the type of place Raleigh wouldn’t have been seen dead in.

Just been to the bi-monthly AWE (Association of Women in Education) meeting - held in Manchester at the Central Library this time - negating yet another jaunt to the big smoke. Could someone invent train miles please? Exciting things, we’re hashing out ideas for a postgraduate conference on feminism and film. Details and calls for papers shortly.

Forthcoming: Dr King will be signing copies of the 2nd edition of Daughters of the Movement at Waterstones up and down the country.

Watch this space for details.

In his hands, as he leaned casually against another central pole the next carriage along – sign of a true commuter, someone who lived here – was a dog-eared hardback copy of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. Her only novel, carefully cupped in the wide hands of this man. She could see the cover jacket was shiny in places and realised that he, perhaps, or someone else, had taped it back together.