Friday night was a bit of a pub crawl with a bit of a brawl thrown in for good measure. Me and Damo of course. It was in the beer garden of the Cricketers or the Elm Tree. No idea which. He slammed his hands against the sides of my head (neither of us know, if anything, pre-empted this), which left my head ringing a bit. I wasn’t best pleased at this, so I decided the best way to get him back was to get him where it hurts, so I stole his pint and started drinking it. He chased after me and pushed me against a low wall around a raised garden. I landed on the hand holding the pint glass, which thankfully didn’t break and cut my hand open. I was so annoyed with him for that. Next thing, we’re at the bar, making up and wondering what on earth we were fighting each other for. More beer and a tequila for me and a whiskey for him led to awful hangovers in the morning.

The head was banging on Saturday, when I woke up. My beloved C looked after me, making me sugary tea and finding some drugs for me - thanks, pet. We went to the yellow Castle for dinner (lovely Thai food), then after a sojourn to the Eagle, we met Mister Tray in the Pickerel. He was in town to go to a reunion dinner at Churchill College, to which C was also going. They were also to be staying over.

After they left, I rang Damo to see if he was still going to Timmy’s barbecue, that I wasn’t invited to; he was, so we met in the Pickerel then went to Sainsbury’s and bought drinks and crisps and marshmallows(!) and went to Tim’s girlfriend’s where the barbecue was. I was on best behaviour after Friday, and I also seemed to fail to be able to drink quickly. I shared a taxi home with Malcolm and Cheggers, arriving at about 2 a.m.. I rang C to see of he was having a nice time, but there was no answer. I settled down on the bed-sofa with the cat to watch Big Brother, when the phone rang. Guess who. Although he had no inkling of the fact that I’d just rang him. Oh, well. Anyway, he told me was pissed (he didn’t need to say that, I could tell) and that he’d got four bottles of wine and no-one to drink them with because everyone had gone to bed so would I go to Churchill and drink them with him? I bizarrely said yes and rang for a taxi and packed an overnight bag. What was going on in my head?

I arrived at the gate, where C was waiting for me, with his bottles of wine, and in we went. This was a black tie event and I was wearing jeans. I was also gatecrashing. Again.

There was a football table, so I had a game of double with these blokes, who C didn’t really know. I managed to win the game pretty resoundingly, despite the crap bloke I had in defence.

I asked C where Mister Tray was. Gone to bed, apparently. Don’t know whose idea it was, but we went and I banged on his door, in what was supposed to be a police-esque way (learned it from living in Salford). After the third or fourth attempt, there was a groan, and he appeared fully-dressed at the door. We told him to get his arse back out, so he did and we drank some more and there was a game of pool played and everything else is a bit hazy.

In the morning, we went down for breakfast. Now, these Churchillians had paid good money for this brekkie. I swanned in and got it for free. Not bad, neither, once somebody had brought me a nice pot of tea - there was only coffee on the tables. This wifey came round, wanting pink slips that hadn’t yet been handed in. I had my back to her and kept my head down. C hadn’t been given one, so he kept quiet, which was fortunate, really, as I’d have stood out like a sore toe because everyone else fluttered their pink slips at her like good alumni.

Some time after that was spent sobering up, before we all left. Mister Tray gave me and C a lift home and we went to the Green Dragon and had the longest, surrealest game of I Spy imaginable. C forgot the rules, can you believe? After Mister T had left, me and C decided to get a Chinese for tea, so we ordered three tons of it, which didn’t quite fit into our bellies and barely fits in the fridge. Pigs.

A more sober post about last night/this morning.

After having got wrong off the security guard, Peter, for the third time for being too noisy, Flatmate-Colleen and I went to B&Q car park, where we pushed each other about in a trolley. Unfortunately, I landed on my elbow when I got out, and Colleen hadn’t been holding on to it to stabilise it. It hurts now and keeps weeping all over the place. I hope I’ve not ruined my new skirt! How do you get blood out of denim?

We sat on the roundabout after that, waving at passing cars and lorries - and the Police! Luckily, it didn’t seem to be illegal to do that

C said, on the phone just now, that I’ll not be able to graduate cos they’ll kick me out if I’m bad. I’d best be on best behaviour from now on, eh?!