Formal dinner

I have internet in my room. I'm going to spam till I get used to the novelty of it.

Anyway, tonight! Was not going to be much of the fun. I spent most of the afternoon wandering round the ghetto asking every girl I met what she was wearing for the evening. I panic when it says "dress up". Finally, I wore a pretty silver-sequinned skirt I borrowed from my mother, and a standard black top, and then I tottered across the back quad to the OCR. Meeting my tutors was an intimidating experience. To start with, it's hard to tell them apart from the graduate freshers, and even the undergraduate fresher boys seem to grow two feet when you put them in dinner jackets. They're really a charming bunch of people. I'm quite pleased to be counted among them.

I survived the hour, more or less, and was introduced to Adam Swift, who is a politics tutor and my personal tutor. He informed me that he has to meet me tomorrow afternoon. I didn't get the letter, and I didn't get the letter about the drinks, and I didn't get a letter hathy_col has posted, so I'm going to see the college secretary tomorrow morning in a panic, I'm sure. Anyway, at half past seven we filed into the hall for formal dinner. Balliol is famous among Oxford colleges for not going in for formal dinners, but tonight was an exception. To set the scene a bit, Balliol's hall is not the one that is seen as the Hogwarts Great Hall (that's Christ Church), but Balliol's isn't much different. It's beautiful, and tonight it was immaculately set with gleaming tableware and red wine glowing in glasses, and every seat on the long benches was filled. I was with the PPEists and the graduate international relations students along with the associated tutors. The food was very nice, but I was more interested in the conversation; one of the PPE Sams was keeping me amused, as was a graduate from Harvard who told me a bit about colleges in America (what gamesiplay is always trying to tell me!), and one of the politics tutors. I didn't get his name, but he knew who I was; he'd marked the essays I sent up back when I applied. A nice guy.

Adam Swift was on the other side of the table; he's also admissions tutor so he knows everyone and all their stats. He can tell you with confidence how many people applied for your place, and then relishes your look of horror. Amusingly, he was introduced by the Master as "the one man you all have to thank" and got resounding cheers. The Master's speech was actually really, really good. It was an official welcome to the college, after all this informal welcoming stuff, and was the first thing I've seen here that has all the expected formal grandeur. It concluded with everyone rising, lifting those glasses of red wine, and offering the traditional toast, floreat domus Balliolo, with its clear translation.

Written down here it seems a terribly pretentious, archaic ceremony, and perhaps it is; but written down here it's different. At the time it was in all the stillness and glory of the hall, with low lights and candles reflecting in wineglasses and rows of eyes, and for the first time, I feel part of something and proud of something, for one of those perfect moments.

Afterwards we went to the pub.

Well, not really; I ran up to my attic to change from my special pretty matriculation shoes to fuck-off boots and went running down again. Talking of matriculation, it's confirmed for a week on Saturday and will be at some obscene hour of the morning because Balliol is the first college in the alphabet, and we will apparently be photographed every step of the way by passing Japanese tourists. I've heard that if you're dressed in full sub fusc with gown and cap and ribbon, the Oxford sightseeing tours will let you on the buses free, as you're apparently a tourist attraction in your own right.

Where was I? We went across Oxford to a club called Bridge, which was sort of okay but charged obscene prices, and I have no money. I was all set to flounce off home and screw the money to get in, but I went to the loos first and ran randomly into the JCR president, Triona. I've seen her before and thought that no-one can be that cheerful and helpful all the time, but talking to her there in the loos I realised that she actually is. She's just a really nice person. I asked her what to do if you don't drink much, and how you can have fun in freshers' week. From her expression I saw that it was a real problem, and her advice was to go out anyway and just to survive freshers' week. After that it all gets better.

I decided to stick it out another ten minutes, and I'm glad I did, because I met a lovely pair of fresher historians self-described as resident indie-whores. They realied I wasn't drinking and brought me big glasses of water from the bar, which I thought was sweet, and when I left they walked with me across to college. It was nice and I had a good time. One of them (his name is, oh god, Sam) wants me to listen to lots of music he recommends, and I may take him up. It's all good.

Tomorrow I have to be up to meet my tutors in an academic setting and be set work (eeek), and I have to visit the college secretary and nurse before, so I need to wake up. Urgh. Should have gone to bed earlier. But the afternoon is the freshers' fair, the event, and I can't wait. Also, at the weekend I'm going to this, and I'm stupidly happy about it.

I actually belong here. I like it.