Another week, another evening cut short as I fall asleep on the sofa. Slight change being that this time the sofa was in Cambridge (meaning the background noise that lulled me to sleep was a rather lively chess match as opposed to the girly chit chat of the week before).
Ah, Cambridge. Place of dreaming spires, where tweed and red chinos are promoted to the ranks of day wear and my lecturer’s turn of phrase was so bedazzling I’d copy it down word for word knowing full well it would never be used for revision.
While perhaps not quite as populated with toffs as the media leads one to believe, Cambridge does boast a considerable percentage of the UK’s eccentrics. Fortunately for me, as it meant I blended in quite nicely on Friday.
Ever since I’ve been trying to normalise my relationship with wine by resisting the urge to pour a large glass to celebrate the successful completion of every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, it has become apparent that I cannot hold my drink. A secret which I could have kept quite nicely to myself, but instead decided to demonstrate in a number of rather bizarre ways at the weekend.
As delicious as the food turned out by the Corpus Christi kitchens is, everyone knows the two main highlights of formal: the cheeky bread roll already waiting for you when you take your seat and the little minty chocolate that accompanies your coffee after dessert. While tispy Isobel (Tipsobel?) managed to register that the butter was off limits due to vegan Lent, she didn’t quite manage the leap that eating other people’s bread was probably a fine dining faux pas. Fortunately, the victim of the robbery was for too amenable to make a scene.
Spurred by this victory, I began to get an appetite (fun pun!) for the food thug life. Lounging around in the after dinner mingling area, my roaming gaze stopped in its tracks when I noticed not just one minty chocolate daintily poised on each saucer, but a WHOLE BOWL FULL of them just ripe for the taking. The catering staff are clearly a trusting bunch. Despite still having the presence of mind to acknowledge that these discs of delight probably aren’t vegan, I felt the need to fill my pockets with them ‘just in case’. I’m still finding them in shoes and bags that I didn’t even take on the trip with me several days on.
It comes as a rather devastating truth that my drunken trait is greed (although perhaps a bit far-fetched to assume I’d suddenly become the sexy one) – still, my doze on the sofa was the contented slumber of an evening well-spent in food-based criminality. In fact, there’d have been very little incentive to change my ways had I not picked my cardi up at an awkward angle after being prodded awake, only to unleash an avalanche of minty goodness onto the proceedings.
Cambridge, we had our time in the sun, but food? From you I will never be parted.