It's a dreary, cold, overcast day with a steady drizzle, and on this most quintessentially British of days, the dons of Oxford meet to decide the future of the most quintessentially British of institutions: the University of Oxford.

In a nutshell, they are meeting to decide whether to end Oxford's 900 years of self-governance, by introducing a governing council that will have a majority of external members. Oxford is currently governed by Congregation, a Parliament that comprises the Fellows of every college. Thus, decisions have to be debated and voted on by over 3000 academics in order to be passed. A new council, with around 15 members, would be able to make decisions more quickly and efficiently.

I had lunch in the Brasenose SCR, as I do twice a week, and there was only one topic of conversation around the table. Most of the fellows seemed to be against it. After lunch, I ran into a friend who is a fellow at All Souls'. He was walking over with another fellow to the Sheldonian Theatre for the meeting as well.

"Off to do battle with John Hood," he said. Hood is the Vice-Chancellor, and the reforms are identified so closely with him that is they should fail, Hood might have to resign. My friend spoke in a cheerful tone but I could see the excitement and anxiety cracking the edges of his cheerful demeanour. We walked on in the rain, quiet for a moment, feeling the weight of the occasion. As we turned the corner from Radcliffe Square onto Catte Street, a long line of Dons appeared, all dressed in their black gowns, queuing in the rain to enter the Theatre. More dons were appearing: through the Great Gate of the Bodleian, from Broad St, out of New College Lane. Normally, Congregation is a quiet affair, skipped by the Dons, who will read the minutes published in the Gazette and then vote by postal ballot, but today everyone was here. The emotion was palpable.

"It's going to be a long afternoon," I remarked, quite pointlessly.

"Yes," my friend replied quietly. I bid him farewell to join the queue and watched the long line of black stretching across the Quad for a few minutes before turning away to enter Hertford. I feel the weight of history and I feel the winds of change. The historian in me is thrilled to be standing at the turn of an age and to feel the wheels of time shifting beneath my feet, but wishes that he could be in there to, with his hand at the tiller and charting the course for the future.