The toga party is, I’m quickly learning, a staple of Freshers’ Week. There’s scarcely been an evening where I haven’t had to press my trusty bedsheet into service. Which reminds me – I must wash it this weekend, God knows what’s been spilt down it.
You can tell a lot by the costume a person wears to a toga party. There’s always a group of raucous boys, drunk on cheap lager and half-dressed in precarious not-quite-white towels. They’re up for anything – except studying – and one of them’s being sick in a plastic urn. Already.
Then there are the head girl types, beautiful in elegant draped white dresses with flowers in their hair. Standing as far away as possible from the raucous boys and not letting anyone who isn’t drinking clear liquids within their orbit.
The Hooray Henrys are out in force. Loud public school types with laurel wreaths, braying and hooting about what fun it all is, obviously dying of joy to be dressing up as Romans. They all look totally at home; this was probably their school uniform.
There are a few people who’ve turned up in only jeans and scowls, expending a great deal of energy in letting us all know that they’ve got far cooler places to be. Why have they bothered showing up then?
The worst of it is that Freshers’ Week is a showcase of my fellow students. These are my future flatmates, study buddies and dates. Makes me want to be sick in a plastic urn.