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?
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?
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.
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.