I am a sick little girlie. While drowning in my own phlegm (tee hee hee, I'm sure you really needed that gross-out mental image, right?) the weekend that was flashes before my eyes...

It's called the 'Dirty Weekend'. They send the tutors and the house committee on it. We're supposed to bond, or... actually, DOUG knows what we're supposed to do. What we actually do is to drink, muck about and generally waste time. It's on the beach. If you want to give that weak, southern excuse for a beach such a grand title. (Yes, I'm a Queenslander with bias.) I didn't swim, since I knew already I was sickening. H and I wandered the full length of the beach, gossipping about those under our care. Especially B^k, who received a gift of a half-score red roses from a 'secret admirer'. Of course, said admirer's identity is currently one of the most hotly speculated in college gossip. We figured out who we thought it was. We continue to tell no one.

Today I have a complete and utter inability to spell "possess". I'm hoping this will pass.

Later, I finished my book. Finally. A meal was cooked by the seven or so females present. It was excellent (I should bloody well hope so too). And then, we settled into the serious business of drinking. For a variety of reasons, I chose not to, and hence was less than amused at the drunken shenanigans that happened than those who took part. Some, though, were more funny sober. Such as the 'Normality is boring' approach to tequila shots, which declared that the salt should be snorted and the lemon juice squirted in the eye. This proved surprisingly popular. As did the general snorting of alcoholic substances.

I read Pride and Prejudice, found in the beach house's bookshelves in a beautiful small, hardback format that I seriously contemplated stealing due to its sheer beauty as a bound volume. I quelled the urge, however.

I fled to sleep early, feeling smug as I did in the knowledge that I would not be one of those sleeping on the floor tonight. (Eleven beds, thirteen present...) Hence, I missed such sterling events as one girl falling off the verandah (not a long fall, into bushes) and the fight that took place with the plethora of cut meat the kitchen provided for us. I missed the President getting stoned as well (he definitely inhaled), but I heard it all right. Noisy bastard.

There were pancakes. They had peanuts in them. Moral of the story: do not allow drunken girls to mix up the pancake batter. Apart from the traces of nuts, it was excellent batter, though. Seven eggs. Apparently that's the secret.

We drove home up the Clyde making vomit jokes the whole way. I heard the song 'Jungle Boogie' for the first time and too many times.

All in all, I think I might have preferred to go to Augie March with Shauny and A. But it was fun. In its own drunken, dirty way.