Storytelling
A couple of missed days, in brazen amalgamation.
I'll tell you a story of why imbibing oneself with alcohol can prove disastrous. You see, there are these pivotal few moments in the deleterious stages of inebriation when one becomes uncontrollably convinced of one's own alcohol-ingesting prowess, even when one is an uncontestable and unparalleled featherweight. This results in one making severely stupid drinking challenges to seasoned drinkers, which results in spiralling inebriation, followed by embarrassing photographs, followed by a magnificent hangover the next morning, and a complete inability to recall any events of the night before.
Not that I speak from personal experience, or anything.
But I recall hours lost to tramping through unruly bracken, crunching through the littered miscellany of ancient debris in the crumbling shadows of an old derelict house, half-razed by some phantom fire. I recall balancing precariously on brittle beams, seared rough and scaly like dinosaur skin, dislodging the blackened tiles from the roof to bring home as a bizarre trophy. A textbook adventure story, if there ever was one. And I recall making off with two warning property signs, stolen not-so-subtly over two trips to said abandoned house. But this will not turn into a story of how there came to be a sign that reads "DANGER KEEP OUT" propped innocently at the foot of the enormous "Welcome to Warwick University" sign on the fringe of campus. Nope.
I won't tell you the story of how I missed a train and gained ten minutes of borrowed time, because poignant farewells are my business, and sometimes ten minutes can feel like about 30 seconds.
But I will tell you that two important conclusions were reached over my trip in Oxford: one, that town squares are not actually square, and two, that given the right company, you can derive sexual innuendos from literally anything.
Now someone needs to tell me the story of why "Fexicle" is actually winning the polls!!!