Shona McGarry | Blogger
Greetings once again from St Andrews, and welcome to the first floor. They don’t call it the party corridor for nothing, and the many delights of 1.4 include neighbours showering at any time from two until five am (although three is the preferred hour), screaming from across the corridor at half nine every Monday (‘I can’t believe I have A CLASS!,’ even though it is already week five and you have been having that class for over a month now. Amateur), and the busiest pile-up of dishes in the sink since Irish College. (You just try peeling that fork from whatever gelatinous goo it has been stewing in for the past five days.) There are perils, yes – and triumphs, too. No Danger Medic to brighten up my otherwise-normal days with his danger ironing and strange midnight corridor ramblings. One time I did see grumpy science guy and he said: ‘I thought you’d left.’ I, of course, had a cunning response: ‘No,’ followed by backing away up a stairs.
I have left the Kitchen of Death in the dust and, although I keep finding a mysterious block of cheese on my shelf in the fridge (I don’t eat cheese so this disturbs me), there have been no strange occurrences in the confines of 1.4, except that everyone in it seems to own a personal two-litre bottle of orange squash, a collection of which are kept under the sink. I feel like I need to invest in some in order to really belong.
That is to say, no strange occurrences yet. There is potential. There is a lot (a lot) of screaming.
“It’s relieving living in a kitchen where you can have a conversation with a bleary eyed student without wondering, silently, if they’ve got your tea-towel stowed in their bedroom somewhere”
During my first day there I was sitting at the kitchen table when four of them burst in, all singing harmonies to the ‘Sherlock’ theme tune. No, it doesn’t have any words. Yes, they left their beans-and-toast slimed dishes in the sink. But I almost joined in with the descant just because silence science guy wasn’t breaking my plates and leaving mouldy pears on the sideboard. It’s relieving living in a kitchen where you can have a conversation with a bleary eyed student without wondering, silently, if they’ve got your tea-towel stowed in their bedroom somewhere. Meanwhile, my own studies are so hardcore (five day weekend, I kid you not) that I end up in Fisher and Donaldson (star bakery filled with sugar frogs and fudge donuts, as well as the grumpiest staff I have ever seen) most of the time, trying to decide between pink and blue spongecakes.
I also spend a lot of time sleeping, and avoiding my room from six pm until six fifteen, because that’s when the couple next door like to (briefly) get it on, with their shoes banging against our shared wall.
In other news, we went to a ball last weekend. Everyone was away, so only two of us went, because St Andrews is the party capital of the UK, obviously.
St Andrean formals would make you long for Trinity’s in an instant. First up – they’re expensive. Our 600th ball at the end of last term was £60 and that didn’t include food or entertainment. We got one glass of champagne (two – handy vegan friend), one glass of vodka, one cupcake (two – vegan friend strikes again), and as much candyfloss as we wanted. The entertainment came out of a box. The fireworks were meh. And all of my bagpiper photos came out pitch black. Additionally, it only went on until two. Trinity Ball doesn’t look too shabby alongside that.
“They’re all Jack Wills-wearing upper-class toffs with four middle names who are practising their Latin outside Starbucks with their designer coffee cups”
Last week’s ball was slightly more reasonable – £15, still no food, and the promise of Dance Soc entertainment. That didn’t really happen, the free ice-cream came in one flavour – vanilla – and the punch was in a saucer rather than a glass. It was in a venue not unlike our Exam Hall, and it came with a theme – ooooh – Masquerade. Of course, Ed and I forgot to buy masks until the day, so we made them ourselves, confident that others would have done the same. Wrong. This is St Andrews. The snobs don’t do things by half. Any given day, have a casual stroll down Market Street and you will wonder where all the French and German and Latin speakers suddenly came from. Class. They came from class. They’re all Jack Wills-wearing upper-class toffs with four middle names who are practising their Latin outside Starbucks with their designer coffee cups, and they wouldn’t be seen dead in a cut-out-and-keep cardboard mask.
Needless to say, nobody seemed impressed with the cardboard-glitter effect, and I broke my camera before dragging Ed to Dervish (local Turkish food joint – who doesn’t have one?), to moan. All in all, I sort of wished I’d been at that week’s Imperial Ball in Trinity – at least they got food, and cake. Beats CarniBall anyday.
Next week we’re off to ‘Scumdee,’ as Cass likes to call Dundee, so we can visit the Asda and marvel at an entire chicken casserole for only £1. That’s after a Saturday night of roller disco, also known as the only thing on in the Union. Until then, I’m off to procure some Robinson’s.
@shozzmcgozz
