Yes, I know I don't have to shout, but I thought you may be so relieved at my safe return that you would like to hang out some bunting? No? Not even one bunt? All right then. Meanie. Because, considering what a totally fabbola time I had, you should think yourselves lucky that I came back at all, left to myself I would still be circling the (slightly confusingly laid out) campus like a moist and unlucky mosquito.
Friends! Old, not so old but slightly tarnished, new, newish and newer! I leapt about in delight only mitigated by some outsize footwear! On Friday the traditional Kitchen Party was held, but because it was warm we decided to move the kitchen outside, where the midges could more easily access our soft bits and all the food and wine could be displayed to the jealous admiration of passers by.
Then came Saturday. Rhoda Baxter and I did a talk, during which I might perhaps have worn a penguin onesie, but it was an illustrative onesie that demonstrated the Juxtaposition of Thingy which is at the heart of all comedy writing. Obviously. The onesie generated a large amount of mirth and sweat, both directly proportional to the amount of strutting I did. And, apparently, liking Tony Robinson is amusing, although I have no idea why... There are absolutely no pictures of the onesie... None. It's astonishing.
Then came the Gala Dinner.
And then came the after-party.
We discussed such writerly topics as beer-bras, sheep rolling, the inability of cats to decide things, the 'boob-wall' caused by corsets, the infamous Gusset-Fanning incident of 2010 and many other subjects. And I came home, even though I didn't want to, fuelled by Rhoda Baxter and her mating chocolate.
You had to be there. And next year you had better be, or I'll send the boys round...
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