100 and 78.

There were no midgets at the Emerald Ball. For one night Wolfson College was transformed into early twentieth century Kansas, with scarecrows and tin men and a handpainted yellow brick road taped from wall to floor of the Upper Common Room. I woke up mid-afternoon Sunday bruised and black-eyed, having lost half my chin somewhere between 5am shots with the kitchen staff and fleeing through the fire escape with a bucket of looted sundried tomatoes.

There was a laserquest set up, briefly, on the lawn and a ceilidh band. Twenty drummers in black outside the library, and inside, the evangelical Nigerian scientist still reading through the screams and vomit hurled recklessly at its windows by the crowd. Upstairs, uneaten baskets of enormous pastries clotted together with greyed cream: appetising. I lost my key and befriended the blind porter. Photo evidence suggests that I launched an aggressive tribal dance attack to reach the front of the 4am survivors picture.

24 hrs later: a trail of lost shoes in the Porters’ Lodge, an unclaimed engagement ring left at lost and found and my return to the library.

It was a lot of fun.