Don't Spill Alfredo On That Lovely Outfit, Dear

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The past three weeks of my life experience can be summed up best in a series of meals and clothes, by which I mean that the main incentive for most of it has been either a meal or clothing. Yesterday, the unidentified pale yellow plane-food goo of dinner was the most beautiful thing in the world. I wasn't actually looking at it, I was savouring the buzz of anticipation as I watched people at every table fight for a copy of the 15-page newspaper I singlehandedly published yesterday covering the Model UN Conference. It was me versus Microsoft Publisher, grating the ends of my nerves against the sandpaper that is text box and headline formatting for seven hours , gnawing at my already-stubby fingernails while obsessively pressing Save As every time news of another fake kidnapping or set of "terrorist demands" (some of which included 'provide all French refugees with cigarettes and black berets...OR ELSE') came in. At least everybody who contributed something - a headline, a note - got to choose a Sweetheart from the open bag on the desk, which served as my main source of nutrients that day. I realised that the Sweethearts were actually prophetic when I accidentally chose two in a row that just said 'CHILL OUT'. Still, the buoyant pride of finally handing it out at the dinner table, as everyone neglected what I think was fettucini alfredo in order to pore over the kidnapping photo-essay and the fashion pages, left me feeling warmer inside than the two and a half glasses of wine I managed to acquire from the Model UN dinner party. I've never felt more justified in accomplishment than when the first warm copy shot out the other side of the whirring machine in the Student Counseling Office. Naturally, as soon as my 50 copies were distributed, I put on a really head-turningly classy black dress and my favourite heels, and clicked authoritatively off to dance with the rest of the delegates. It was the first time I'd dressed within the boundaries of 'normal' for sosh in a very long time. The night before it was just a leotard, ultraviolet leggings and the all-purpose purple sparkly fairy wings; I paused over that last semicolon for a while, because I'm really trying hard to remember why we actually did it. Last weekend, Marion and I were still dressed as Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee (apparently from somewhere near the Alsace region of France - we wore matching striped shirts and berets, all we really needed therefore was a baguette apiece and possibly those cigarettes that the terrorists wanted so badly), having dashed straight from Natalie's Alice-In-Wonderland themed party. All of the files on my camera right now are pretty incriminating, actually - it starts with a video of me and eight of my friends standing in the middle of Main Drive at dusk in togas screaming Latin phrases ("BIBO, ERGO SUUUUUUM!" What more do you need really?) and "ToK is fun!" at the traumatised first-years walking down to their Theory of Knowledge class induction. In the next picture, surreptitiously taken by Ben in the Sunley dayroom, there is evident terror in both my eyes and my legs, as I appear to be attempting to sit down in that striped polyester tea-towel they gave me to wear for the second day that we were all extras in the film. It should have come with its own accessorising black censor bar. Should I be proud that the star of the film spoke to me, lowly Girl In Striped Dress, if it was only to shout on set "Oi! That's a tiny little morsel isn't it?" I lifted my chin, kept my thighs nearly Superglued together and bore it until the next meal, for in truth the entire reason I volunteered to sit around in the freezing rain for six hours in a miniskirt was for those (to paraphrase Rhys Ifans) 'morsels' from the food van. Honey-grilled salmon, roasted parsnip and lentil soup, sticky toffee roly-polies with a ladle of fresh cream soaking in to the golden spongy pastry, and as I delved into the delicious Brie and Stilton I realised that I couldn't even remember the last time I'd had good cheese. Lunch and dinner made the entire Beckett-esque day of waiting for nothing almost worth it. When I think back on it, my deprived tastebuds still instantly offer up the essence of that green Thai fish curry - featuring real fish, real curry, and optional rice. See, that was not a smart memory to revisit as now I'm really not looking forward to another hastily downed lunch of candy and hummus; the Sweethearts have all been consumed by the delegates by now, but I still have that huge bar of Cadbury Fruit and Nut chocolate that Rosh's parents sent me through the post, as they do sometimes quite randomly, knowing it's my favourite. I'll finish the chocolate, and then while waiting for more breaking news I'll figure out a)how to conspicuously mention the fact that I wrote and published a newspaper in seven hours and b)what to wear for...always end on a cliffhanger...my Yale interview, in two weeks.

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