Row, row, row your boat

I am, at heart, a boatie. There, I've admitted it. I was, once upon a time, one of the (clearly mentally imbalanced) folk who dragged themselves out of bed at 5.30am in the depths of winter, come rain, wind, hail or snow, and sat in a boat for several hours, several times a week. I had callouses on my hands for months on end. I submitted to the all-in-one which is universally acknowledged to be hideous in all respects. I was told to man the ef up on a regular basis. But, still, I loved it - the adrenalin, the camaraderie, the slightly debauched celebrations, burning boats and then jumping over them -- just for kicks.

Even though I've since abandoned it for the sake of RAG, work and sleep, I still leapt at the chance to get the girls together for one of the best regatta events of the season: Henley. Sunshine - check. Summer dresses - check. Pimms - check. It was a wonderful day and the perfect way to launch the summer vac. Whether you find yourself lounging on the bank and watching the teams power through the water or surrounded by the crowds in their boaters and blazers, this event is old school in the best sense of the word.

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.