seven/threesixfive

Getting turned away from Cheapskates is embarassing. Not having proper ID is embarassing.

Nipping across the road for cocktails and dancing in Thirst is wicked. And a little embarassing, but only because I'm too drunk to stand by the time Sam and I leave.

six/threesixfive

Est says, to cheer me up, she'll give me a ride home.

The shopping trolley is big enough for me, but Est isn't big enough to push us both.

The pavement slopes away to the right and so do I, control lost, slipping sideways til the kerb rears like a precipice and I stop for one beautiful moment when I think I'm safe, teetering trolley and too scared to scream-

and then we fall over, me in the trolley, Est caught up under its wheels, I hit the road like a sack of potatoes and I laugh so hard and so loud that I think I might explode from the inside out.

I'm bruised. It did cheer me up.

five/threesixfive

It's cold, and I'm not wearing enough.

They dared us, and we dared them, and they dared us, and we chickened out and changed our minds and ran back out.

"Come on, open the door, come on, now, come on!"

"It's FREEZING!"

And it's liberating too, and anyone looking out their bedroom window on the North Quad tonight will see far more than they bargained for, and I've kept my socks on because it's really that cold and there's not much else but laughter, lots of it, and bare feet smacking on the concrete cloister floor.

The statue of Queen Victoria didn't ought to see that much.

We lie down on the quilt, the five of us. We can't see the stars anymore but we did once, so that's fine too.

five/threesixfive

Winchester, with my parents.

My mum wants a clipping of this blue plant for our garden and we're standing by the river watching it flow, faster and deeper than normal, while my father surreptitiously rips a branch of this bush and hides it in his jacket.

I want to cry with laughter; these are my parents, they're fucking everything that's good about me.

four/threesixfive

Monkey's Forehead, morning after.

I'd call it breakfast but it's actually lunch, greasy food, a pint of coke each, window wide open, air, so much air, and a little bit of rain coming in.

A certain solidity there, the people you were with the night before are still here, they feel as hungover as you do but more importantly, they're there.

I realise I'm going away for five weeks, casting myself into something new, but we'll come back, see, we'll still be here.

three/threesixfive

Lying on the quad, cider in front, the sun behind and it warms me right through my toes, my freezing body doesn't mind because it's there in my feet, the sole of me.

Warmth starts from there, like sex or excitement. It always starts in the sole of my feet. Sunshine. Yeah...

two/threesixfive

A bacon, brie and grape baggette. Café Jules' finest hand made produce. Is the bacon needed? Probably, the brie and grape sandwiches from Sunburst Café, Guildford, are almost like desserts. The salt and fat pull it right back down (where?). And bacon = breakfast. Breakfast can't be dessert.

Found out who slept with one of the members of staff. Sensual. Like sight.

Marra's bourgeois communistic tendencies enlightening the ASMs.

And some guy with a morally questionable taste in internet cartoons.

one/threesixfive

We're standing in the theatre, pissed off, covered in paint, sand, grapes, newspaper, frowns.

The visiting Health and Safety executive demands that, as well as steel toe-capped boots, we wear bright red shiny safety helmets and gloves while we're moving steel deck and spreading sand.

Grouchy.

Jo comes in, hey guys, hey guys, helmet's ready, starts singing the YMCA. We know how ridiculous we look, but now it's funny. So we laugh instead.