Miniature prosecco and absolute joy!

I won't beat around the bush: finals may be boring but finalists are more so. It may sound callous, it may sound unsympathetic - actually, it is. This term has, thus far, been intolerably dull as I am living in the strange twilight zone of a third year sans examens. All my friends have been following the French dictum of 'metro, boulot, dodo' (tube, work, sleep) except there isn't even the hint of 'metro' to ease the tedium of constant revision, just the quick walk to and from the library. Not only is summer term distinctly less fun without friends to muck around with, it is disconcerting to view veritable spectres of your future self, worn down by the stresses and strains of finals revision. The finals fear seems to be contagious for I feel a little apprehensive about my own. Yep, I'm actually nervous about those tests, you know, the ones a year from now.

However, today, the first of my friends completed their final final (if that makes any sense!) and I couldn't have been more pleased for her ... as well as a little gleeful for myself! After running around like a headless chicken trying to find a suitably hysterical card (merci, Edward Monkton) and a nice miniature bottle of rose prosecco (merci, Hotel Chocolat), I dashed over to the exam schools to greet mon amie (this post is becoming tres francais, n'est-ce pas?)

It soon became painfully clear that I needed to up my game. Cards and prosecco were clearly not enough. There were inflatable magnums of champagne, garlands of kaleidoscopic colours, vuvuzellas (no, I'm not sure how this instrument, which quite frankly sounds like a bee breaking wind, adds to the celebrations either), huge bouquets of flowers, confetti, silly string...  The list goes on. There were also covert tins of baked beans, bags of flour and boxes of eggs for the inevitable trashing (essentially where you besiege your friend with any edible substance to hand; the more disgusting, the better). However, being the goodie-two-shoes that I am, throwing food was clearly not an option. However, I refuse to be upstaged and so next time will be bringing all of the above AND a bubble blowing machine or something equally spectacular.

Festival chic

Spent this Saturday having a very pleasant time hanging out at a college music festival selling ice cream, enjoying lots of music sets and sneakily, some might say cunningly, engineering it so that all my friends came along to say hello. The sun was even out!

But no, alas, alack, woe. I dash off for a mere half an hour to grab some dinner with the old flatmate and, as soon as I head back, it is CHUCKING it down. No word of a lie - forget cats and dogs; think pigs and elephants. Fool that I am, I skip along trying to hide under trees and whatnot. Meet the friends and we realise there is only one thing for it: we must embrace the rain. Yes, we WILL work the festival-ly look, as Best Friend so aptly described it. For those of you not accustomed this means: smudged and/or running mascara, soaked hair (requires regular 'jugeing' for rock star volume) and in my case a very inappropriate white linen top which went see-through fairly quickly.

Despite being un peu cold and wanting to thwack the lady in front who was smugly allowing her umbrella to drip all over me, twas a fabulous night made better by my friends' final set - anyone for a good bit of Cee Lo Green and some vintage Motown?

Back to reality and work now but, unfortunately, I have been horrifically unproductive all of today and yesterday but hopefully this evening I will work like a worky thing (yes, my grasp on the English language is outstanding). I fear I may get distracted as I have a bizarre urge to google wellies. I think I've caught the festival bug!