Props and frocks…

Anyone that knows me knows that I’m the worst person ever to take to a formal social event.

Stuffy balls and formal pow wows seem to bring out my naughty side.

The euphemisms are real with this one.

Oi stop snickering behind your screens. This is a serious blog with serious…oh who am I kidding?

Our university summer ball, however, was an outdoor garden event with live music, dance tents and zorbs. Perfect for this country bumpkin.

What could go wrong?

Rain.

Much rain.

Exeter city centre became a witch hunt for reasonably priced and outfit coordinating wellie boots, and I’m afraid to say I was no Matthew Hopkins.

You know the famous Essex witch hunter?

No?

Ahhhh I’m such a history geek.

I returned home sans-Wellington boots and decided to wear my lovely new faith heels I bought for the occasion.

Well they did match my dress that I’d painstakingly searched for over the course of the summer term (no it had absolutely nothing to do with exam procrastination, how very dare you, it’s completely normal to buy and return six dresses and two pairs of shoes before a big event).

I almost got away with it.

Turns out being 5’1″ you can fit your entire body into a zorb, and so when someone runs into you and pushes you over, though you may be stuck legs akimbo for ten minutes waiting for professional help, you stay fairly mud free.

Bloody fantastic.

Add that to my CV…”doesn’t get wet in zorbs”.

Hey it’s 2014, I need all the help I can get.

In the end it was the mud pit that was once the silent disco tent and the slide (yes slide) into the dance tent that had me caked like Percy the pig.

I didn’t much care. Turns out overpriced jaëger and energy drinks both protect you from the bitter cold and reduce the general number of fucks given about anything.

That was until it was time to go home.

The Ball organisers decided it would be a wonderful idea to try to transport a thousand students back to campus on two fifty-seated coaches.

Cue a sea of very annoyed and sobering students and a general air of rioting.

I decided it was better to sit at the back and watch the drama unfold, of which there was plenty.

Turns out my jaëgerbomb coat came in very handy.

Luckily, by the early hours of the morning, we got dropped home right outside our accommodation as quite happy, if not very broke and muddy, campers.

Every cloud has a silver bus.

P.S. It rained so hard at one point that we got stuck inside the music tent with some very drunk rah’s smoking cigars. Can you get any posher? I of course added even more class to the proceedings by very attractively wolfing down a hotdog.

P.P.S. Even though I lost my shoes (well ok I managed to scrub them up but they did almost go to shoe heaven), I did not meet Prince Charming at the ball. I’ll keep you updated on that one, it’s a work in progress.

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The Illest MF Alive…

Oh yeah, the title of this post is totally a Kanye West reference…told you I was gangsta.

*Tumbleweed*

In all seriousness though, once again some sneaky bastard has infected me with their pathogens…I’ve only just managed to surface from the depths of my bed fort to write this.

Not only do I have a hacking cough, a fever, a sore throat and nausea, but I’m also sporting a fucking sexy nose whistle.

Thank god I’m a girl…the sheer amount of tissues overflowing my litter bin would have raised a few eyebrows by now.

Maybe I shouldn’t say “sneaky bastard” I do kind of know the reason I’m sick.

Ok fine, I know exactly why…

I went out with my friends the other day to my favourite club and had a bit of a “moment”.

There I was boogieing the night away when a cute guy came up to dance with me…

*Cue slow motion turn around, eyes meeting, seductive smile*

Pfft, yeah right.

Come on guys, this is me we’re talking about.

I, in fact, didn’t notice him and carried on dancing, flailing my arms around and by accident punched him on the nose.

TWICE.

Of course I turned around and apologised profusely, he lifted me off the ground in a hug and said it was all fine.

We danced together.

Ten minutes later, I look down and notice I have blood on my arm.

Turns out I hit him so hard he got a nosebleed.

…I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

…How much better do you feel about your life right now?

Uh huh.

Anyway he ran off to go and get cleaned up and I legged it to the bathroom and met back up with my friends, not expecting to see him again.

A little while later I turn around and there he was so we dance together for a while until the DJ says “in ten seconds I wanna see everyone jump”.

On one he picks me up in front of the whole club and kisses me.

THIS.

THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME.

I DIED.

Then he did it again.

We sat down for a bit and exchanged numbers, and I had to resist his advances with the whole ‘wrong time of the month’ excuse, which I can inform you, is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to say to another person in my entire life.

Praise the lord for vodka.

Don’t you just love mother nature?

When I got up to leave, instead of a sexy sashay away,  I managed to walk straight into a bar stool and almost stacked it in my heels…

FAIL, Laura, FAIL.

And yet for some unknown reason I arrived home to a goodnight text.

I handed to my more experienced flatmate to deal with.

Bad idea.

Rather than the mysterious allure I was going for, it resulted more in a bit too much obvious flirtation and way too many winky faces for my liking.

Then the alcohol buzz wore off and now everything is just very awkward.

In fact I walked past him on the way back from the Co-Op the other day and had to resist the urge to throw myself sideways into a hedge.

*Cringe-fest*

And I wonder why I’m still single.

Oh, did I mention he had a “cold”?

So now I’m both sick and sad.

All care packages to my bedroom please.

Stop it, minds out of gutters.

What am I going to do with you guys.

*Smh*