Attending a Cambridge Soirée: Formal for the Former Party Girl
This week I was sparklingly fortunate enough to be pleasurably invited to a Cambridge University ball; Christ's "Poets and Lovers Soirée", no less. As someone who never fostered much concern for academia throughout her school years, I realise now, regretfully, that I missed out on more than just the qualifications afforded by an Oxbridge education. In fact, I believe the education itself to be secondary to all the quintessentially whimsical, olde-English affairs, engagements and functions thrown under the guise of extracurricular activities!
It is a real pity I cannot turn back time to being eighteen again. Applying for universities online via my UCAS portal during daily morning tutorial with Mr Spaul. Which I almost always missed because I couldn't get out of bed early enough, à la the Xanax, Codeine and/or Ambien I had taken the night before.
Although, let's be honest, at that age I was far more concerned with the likes of "partying" (addiction), being "in love" (groomed), and, most regrettably, those gauche, talon-like acrylic nails I adorned my fingertips with. What was I thinking? Oh, that's right—I wasn't.
My hair always smelt like a mixture of the strawberry-custard vape I absent-mindedly dragged on in bed, YSL's Black Opium, spritzed morning and eve, and Marlboro Golds, which I liberally sucked upon while walking home from places I shouldn't have been. How on earth was a girl like me to know that university could offer so much more than the dirty lifestyle I glamorised ‘till its own filthy destruction? Who knew there was a worthy, clever, classy girl beneath all that glitter and grime? Certainly not me! It took me years before I recognised my own potential, and even longer before I felt I deserved saving.
Now that I'm twenty-five, I have a completely different outlook on life. I do keep acknowledging the fact that I am, yes, twenty-five—a lot, in fact. It makes me feel strange in an emotional, though not unpleasant, sort of way. In a way, I am proud of myself for everything I have overcome and the progress I have made. Though there is no good in comparing myself to others, comparison is the thief of joy, I remind myself, often, at 3am, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what my life might have looked like had I been able to take my education more seriously keeps me up at night, if I let it.
I feel regretful that I didn't appreciate the doors education could have opened for me. You see, the education system was never really on my side. As a child with complex health conditions and ADHD that went undiagnosed until adulthood, it is surely no surprise that I found school incredibly intense, demanding and foreboding. A sobering experience, really. I suppose that's why I reached for drugs as soon as I became aware of their advantageous existence. Drugs; cocaine especially, were painfully normalised by practically every facet of my teenage London life.
And so I found myself smiling in amusement, as the man in his late thirties working the falafel wrap van at the Poets and Lovers Soirée asked me if the glistening white slab of vanilla and coconut fudge I held in my left hand was a lump of cocaine.
"No," I laughed. "Ugh, if only!"
We both lamented our sobriety. He told me he was four years clean; I said I was five (clean from cocaine, at least). I still count myself as a sober girly because I hardly ever drink alcohol, which was never even a problem drug of mine, and I only swallow pills prescribed by my doctor and/or procured from slightly nefarious (but still, totally legit!!) online pharmacies.
Falafel man shared that he works lots of festivals from his food van. We sighed over Glastonbury's fallow year, as those Somerset fields would otherwise be alive with magic and music as I type this(!!)
"I've seen a lot of things, working festivals," he confessed.
I gave him a knowing smile.
"Boomtown is the worst for drugs," he assures me.
But I already knew this.
"My parents go to Boomtown every year. The first time I went I was seven years old," I replied.
He got it.
My falafel wrap was handed over the counter into my free hand. I smiled a big, wonky-eyed, benzo-soaked, alcohol-splashed, drunken smile and wandered off, beelining for the picnic blankets and pillows strewn across the grass in a clearing of trees, lit with neon-purple spotlights. The second court Fellows Offices illuminated by projected light in much the same way Lulworth Castle is during Camp Bestival in Dorset: a family-oriented festival my parents and I attended every primary school summer, alongside The Big Chill, WOMAD and, of course, the unbeatable OG: Glastonbury. —Just to name a few.
That's when I glanced down at my fabric entry wristband, and realised; these famed university balls are nothing less than big, fancy festivals one gets to attend in black tie!
As a wistful young lady with opulent tastes, there is no better feeling than being zipped into a structured, corseted, so-tight-I-can't-take-a-full-breath gown, with a skirt so delightful and decadent it flutters and fans out like a Disney princess's, as I skip, jump and twirl. Nothing comes more naturally to me than prancing about on my tiptoes in heeled pumps, with a long, flowing skirt acting as an extension of my body. There is nothing more Arcadian than princessy attire. I've been doing myself a disservice by prioritising miniskirts over ballgowns in my own (unkempt) wardrobe.
The Christ's campus grounds were overtaken by quintessentially British white marquee tents housing various caterers, and bars serving event-themed cocktails. The two I sipped most were the "Wilde on the Beach":—peach schnapps, vodka, lemonade and grenadine —And, more favourably, the "Lord Byron": a sweet, spiced, ginger-ale-syrupy rum affair.
There were also pop-up sweet treat displays ( the aforementioned fudge) and dessert tables. White plastic chairs surrounded large, round white plastic tables decorated with faux candles and stacks of antique-looking books as the centrepiece.
A rather comical, yet still impressive, inflatable stage had been erected overnight for cover bands no one had ever heard of to perform upon; the likes of "Jam Sandwich", "Half Orange" and "Colonel Spanky's Love Ensemble". I am not joking. Lol. They revelled until dawn—or, well, 3am.
There was, supposedly, an elusive tarot card reader, whom I only heard about for lack of ever spotting amidst the sparkling crowded chaos. There were also fan- and mask-decorating craft tables, which I didn't partake in due to my dizzyingly excitable condition. There was simply no way I could sit still long enough to do anything more productive than half smoke a cigarette, before getting head rush because I am no longer a habitual smoker.
In fact, I proved something of an embarrassment to my own once-outlandishly impressive party girl standards. After my third cocktail, served in a plastic cup, I was becoming hideously nauseous at the sight of an iPhone camera flash. I could barely inhale a cigarette, or see properly without a hazy blur settling over my vision. I hardly drink these days and have absolutely no tolerance for the stuff. Furthermore, when mixed with benzos, three drinks feel like six, and four feel like eight. You understand my predicament.
There was a silent disco hosted in a grand, wood-panelled dining hall that I never made it to, where I imagine I would have danced, dazed, across the black-and-white chequerboard floor. Instead, I lay on the blanketed grass feeling sick to my stomach until my head finally stopped spinning. When I was eventually able to steady myself, I accepted the prospect of going to bed. I could easily have slept outside that night if it weren't for the 1am chill slowly creeping up my spine, prickling goosebumps across my bare, skinny arms.
I showered briefly, using raspberry shower gel to cleanse myself of that smoky, boozy, grassy —unmistakably festival-esque odour before falling asleep in my makeup and an oversized gig T-shirt.
Perhaps I didn't miss out after all, I simply arrived a little late to the party.