I got home in time to vote last night soon after I posted my last post. I voted for my boys and for whoever they had told me to vote for and made my way to our kitchen. Everyone was drunk. They had stripped, or watched stripping. I heard that one guy had given his mobile to charity to try to convince one girl to show her breasts. I also heard that two and a bit penises had been seen on stage.
There were girls in the kitchen. I generally have a policy to leave the kitchen when people from other flats come over (as having 13 teenagers in my life is more than enough), but I was so overexcited by election fever that not only did I stay, but I also declared that I’d drive to the pub for the election count. The girls decided to come with me, to spare their feet the walk in their high heels. And so off I drove, three drunk nineteen-year-old girls in the car.
I arrived long before any of my boys, and took it upon myself to make friends. I plonked myself down at a table and asked the two girls there if they had been campaigning for anyone. They looked at me as if I had just asked them if they were from Jupiter. They curtly informed me that they couldn’t campaign as they were members of the current JCR. Eek! I had offended the powerbrokers. That conversation ended as soon as it started.
I sat in companionable silence with yet another eighteen-year-old girl for another few minutes before I bolted and went for a little walk.
When I returned from my walk, my boys had arrived. They were standing outside the pub, drinking from naggins, cans and plastic bottles, because they’re all class. The night improved from then on. I was driving so I limited myself to one drink. I judged most of the girls there in a patriarchal old man fashion, because they appeared to have arrived dressed for a prostitute competition.
Anyway, the count took quite a while. One of my flatmates keeled over from too much drink. Someone then asked me to be the grown-up and take him home. I decided to postpone being a grown-up for a short while and let someone else look after him while the counts were announced.
Two out of three of my boys won. I cried. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Because I’m an old lady.
I left, helped my flatmate into the car, begging him not to vomit and drove home. He didn’t vomit.
I went for the run that I had planned to go for at lunchtime. It was nearly 2:00 am when I got out to run. It was raining. That’s right, I was running in the rain, like Rocky Balboa or Usain Bolt or something. Actually, I wasn’t running in the rain, I was jogging in the drizzle, but it was almost as good and I have a right to feel smug anyway.
This morning I woke up after four and a half hours sleep. I felt hungover (from one pint) and deflated.
After faffing about at home and then at work for a while, I made it to college. The office was very hot so I opened a window. In the process, I ripped the fly of my jeans wide open. These jeans have a particularly long fly too, meaning I’m quite substantially on display.
I tried desperately to fix the zip, and then looked up, realising that the window of my office looks directly onto the window of the Director of Postgraduate Teaching and Learning. I had been fiddling with my nether regions while jumping up and down for five minutes in plain view of the person whose job it is to decide on my funding and my exam dates.
I sat down, deciding to leave my fly alone.
As often happens on Fridays, I have the office to myself. I plugged in my earphones and sang aloud as I listened to Glee’s version of Don’t Stop Believing. As I sang, I drank loads of Diet Coke in an effort to wake myself up. This brought on a series of chronic and unashamed burps.
I sang and burped happily until I remembered that I was sitting next to the paper thin wall of the Social Work office, whose admin staff no doubt don’t enjoy strange men’s burps.
I’ll be a better Connor tomorrow.