Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I thought Peterhouse choir dinner would be a mostly-pleasant but slightly awkward affair in which I made polite conversation with Fellows and tried not to feel left out while the students talked of supervisions and exams. I did not expect to end up draping myself around a young don in an attempt to distract him from the fact that I was trying to steal his cigar. I blame the port. It's always the port that's to blame, really, though in this case the previous champagne, white wine, red wine, and dessert wine may have contributed...

I staggered home at some unimaginable time in the morning, not really having realised quite how late it had gotten, and I am lucky that addedentry was more amused by my sorry state than cross with me for not giving him any good idea of when I'd be back. I am even luckier that he looked after me and helped me to (eventually) get to bed despite (apparently) much resistance on my part.

Saturday morning was completely wiped out in feeling miserable, alternately sorry for myself and cross with myself, determined to get well enough to go out but unable to walk more than three steps without feeling queasy... but we finally made it to taimatsu's picnic at about 5pm, having (I now realised) missed several nice people but being in time to see lots of other nice people. There was enough food to feed an army, and lots of folky singing, and general lazing around in the sunshine.

Sunday was the last Evensong of the year, and we went out on a high note (metaphorically at least), with a robust reprise of Stainer's I Saw The Lord (which we'd done last term) and a moving a capella rendition of the lovely "Christ be with me, Christ within me" bit in the middle of Patrick's Breastplate ("I bind unto myself today..."), which, incidentally, is the BEST HYMN EVER.

I also took the opportunity on Sunday to apologise to everybody for anything I might have said or done on Friday, and got an awkward blushing grin from the senior organ scholar (I only hugged him, honest, but he probably thinks I'm a scary predatory older woman -- sometimes I forget that I'm seven years older than the oldest of these people) and a chuckle and a general-purpose drinks invitation from the nice young don (who's very Peterhouse, so I really don't think there's any danger of us confusing each other there).

The moral of the story? When life gives you port, drink port.

Tags: diaryism