Formal Dinner

So, I was invited to a formal dinner at Green College, Oxford. An old mate of mine, Joe, whom I hadn’t seen for years, is doing a PhD there. A Thursday night in December – in fact, the Thursday night in December following the tornado that pulled down a house in London.

I’m in my Focus, trying to focus on the pitch black road through the driving rain and howling wind. Dazzled by headlights and the glow of dead badger stripes, I’m wearing a skirt, a low cut top, tights and heels (not my usual attire, by any stretch). The wind is buffeting my cigarette and ash is flying round the inside of the car, fanned to a fine consistency by my whirlwind hair which I’ve spent hours straightening and is now sticking to my lipgloss in straw-like clumps, when it isn’t trying to escape through the window.

Having never driven to Oxford before I’m surprised by how close it actually is and have to stop at a petrol station just to kill some time. I find the right road by some small miracle and sit in the car composing myself before I knock on the door of my friend’s student accommodation. I totter across the gravel, trying to hold my hair away from my eyes (it’s trying to escape the confines of my head entirely - the pelting rain has dampened it enough to turn it to ringlets but the wind is causing it to re-straighten as it stands on end) and knock loudly on the imposing door.

The door is opened by a very well spoken youngish man who is framed by the most psychedelic wallpaper I have ever seen. Great swirls of green and gold cover the walls and ceiling of the cavernous hallway and he looks at me enquiringly. ‘Um. Is Joe here, please?’ I ask. Clearly, Joe is not here. The youngish man is very apologetic but says that he and his wife and children have lived here for many years. He suggests I try next door where a bunch of Balliol undergraduates live. He looks me up and down and remarks that I look like I’m up for a good time. (Well, he actually said that I looked like I was looking forward to a nice evening, but the effect is the same.) Slightly huffy, I thank him for his time and cross the gravel in my now scuffed and squelchy shoes and phone Joe.

Joe, it transpires, lives at number 39, not number 36. An easy mistake to make, and one that I blame entirely on him.

Joe’s room is fairly large but very sparsely furnished. A single bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a chair and a sink in the corner. Joe and I catch up while he irons his ‘best’ shirt on the desk (figuring out after a minute that he needs to put a towel under the shirt to properly simulate an ironing board). He has two suits, but one went mouldy while he was collecting dung beetles in Honduras and the other hasn’t been cleaned since he wore it as best man at a wedding.

Joe breaks it to me gently that we have to walk for fifteen minutes through the driving rain, in heels (well, his were much lower than mine) to the formal dinner. Despite being dressed to the nines, I don’t have a smart coat, so I’m wearing my denim which isn’t particularly weather-proof either. So, blinded and whipped by lip-glossy hair, tripping over every crack in the pavement and shivering uncontrollably we make our way to the hallowed halls of Green College.

When we arrive, one of the dry and warm deans looks at us dripping onto the carpet and pointedly wipes his feet on the mat whilst glaring at us. His glare disappears moments later to be replaced by a leer as I remove my jacket and reveal my not unimpressive cleavage.

After a few rapid glasses of (sour) wine we troop up the curved staircase to the dining hall. This is a large, oval room with a horseshoe arrangement of tables. We wait for the dean to say Latin grace and seat ourselves. All cues are taken from the dean – when to put napkins on laps, when to start eating, when to stop eating and when to leave the room. In fact, if you were mid-soup when the dean finished his, you lost the chance of finishing it, so fast would the staff whip your bowl away. All courses are served on crockery with the Oxford herald at the top of the plate and staff ensure the herald is in the correct serving position for every plate. The food is remarkably edible, if a little swift. A fleeting glimpse of broccoli and stilton soup, a snippet of red mullet on Thai vegetables, a speedy pork loin with veg and a hasty lime meringue pie.

Luckily, we are seated opposite a young professor of Environmental Law who is polite, welcoming and friendly. Due to the proximity of Yuletide and the end of term there are no empty seats and a resultant shortage of the rather grim wine. In order to numb my blisters and ignore the leers of the dean, I’m desperately trying to catch the eye of the sommelier (Jason – a good buddy of Joe’s) by winking and grinning. It is not seemly behaviour for a young lady at the best of times, and this is far from that, although the dean appears to enjoy the spectacle. During the four courses we are served a measly three (small) glasses, albeit a different wine for each non-soup course, so when the dean abruptly rises, mumbles a few words of thanks (possibly in Latin) and departs for coffee in the ‘common’ room, Joe and I scrabble for our jackets and sprint (teeter) to the nearest pub. Ah. That’s better. A pint of lager goes very well with lipgloss.

Perhaps Oxford abides by its own licensing laws, but when Joe goes to the bar to collect our doubles for last orders there is no indication that it is last orders. In fact we stagger out several drinks later (once we had started on doubles, it seemed foolish to stop). My feet are by this time both numb and sore so I remove my impractical shoes and walk through the puddles and pebbles in my impractical tighted feet. This does not aid the soreness, merely moves the location from heels to soles. Still, a change is as good as a rest.

Jungle Joe is perfectly happy to sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor and politely offers me the bed, which I impolitely slump onto immediately. After a brief Radio 4 interlude we snuffle and grunt our way through the night under the dreaming spires.

The morning looms menacingly over our sore heads at 7.30 as Joe has to work and I have to shop. A bacon buttie later we split up and agree to meet for lunch. My sore feet, now shod in walking boots, grumble quietly as I marvel at the gargoyles and architraves whilst purchasing 3 Christmas presents for friends and family and twelve for myself.

We return to the college for lunch in order to take full advantage of the perks of studying at Oxford. Another speedy but delicious meal – less formal this time and not softened by alcohol. Fish ‘N’ Chips. Yes, with all the punctuation – it is Oxford. Joe’s pea soup is served at the same time as his main course in a quirky ‘aren’t students rebellious’ way. A swift coffee and Joe departs to work again and I shuffle off to find my car and drive home accompanied by a pleasant all-over ache and a little light Meatloaf.

An altogether surreal but successful trip.