Fayre

Renn Fayre is Reed's three day party in the middle of May. It ostensibly begins at 3 in the afternoon on Friday, but, as Professor Gail observes, the first event on the official schedule is the Hum110 lecture at 9am. Our final JOFM class is at 2pm, and Gail compels us to set an example to the freshmen by turning up with clear heads, and no gin. With the exception of Stevie, who had handed in his thesis only an hour or so before the class, everyone obliges, and we eat a civilised round of donuts. Renn Fayre broods around campus in nostalgic waves of hay bale and cut wood. The idiot and I separate after the class. Our fractured relations are in the formative stages of repair at this time (see June 11th post), and I suggest we spend the weekend apart. She declares, somewhat happily I think, that Renn Fayre demarcates the beginning of the end for her imaginary boyfriend transgression (I concur), and she undertakes a number of strategies to eliminate him from her system. This includes banishing all imaginary persons from her sight and reconnecting with reality, for three days at least.

I watch Thesis Parade from the peripheries. Occasionally I catch glimpses of the idiot between bodies and confetti; she is wearing a pink and white jumpsuit like a peppermint boiled sweet, and a necklace of Ferrero Rocher in deference to the theme of 'Gold Rush'. I think for a second that she has reinstated that hideous lip piercing again for the first time in a year, but then perhaps I am over-egging the idiocy. Anyway, this is less of a 'parade', and more of a pit. There is a lot of kissing, a lot of steam from the rain and the heat, and paganlike drums and sparkling-white-wine-in-the-guise-of-champagne. Those with the gold laurels on their heads are the seniors. They push to the bonfire and burn print-outs of their theses. A gold taurus hangs from the front of the library and, above on the balcony, some professors observe proceedings from a sensible distance. A man with a bazooka shoots confetti to the ground. It is all rather disgusting. After a while, the mass shifts to the old entrance of the library, and the seniors file out and down the steps to run through a human tunnel, and the mass shifts again to Eliot Hall. I find President Colin for a chat; he is jolly, but still, as you would expect, dapper and wise owlish. "Kids," he says. I knew Colin would have the requisite imagination to see me, I just knew it.

The crowd eventually dissipates and I return to our dorm for a nap and, in imitation of the idiot's tastes, a top up of ginger ale and vodka. It is a lonely Renn Fayre for me, but I respect the idiot's request and keep a good distance between us at all times. She has real friends, which I suppose is nice. I could of course resort to the company of the imaginary boyfriend, but we both considered it prudent to keep him out of sight while the idiot is in the process of forgetting, and while the memory of the infamous Newport elopement is still fresh in her mind (again, cf. June 11th).

On the Friday night I decide to explore the Lodges. Black Lodge purports to play dirty electro, Green Lodge = drum and bass, Red Lodge = bands, and White Lodge, as far as I can gather = pillows and overwhelming tequila and lots of people stroking skin and hypnotically repeating "you're so beautiful" over and over. I prefer it outside where the Narnia streetlamps have been block-coloured with rainbow cellophane. The blue bridge is partially covered with a bin bag tent and looks like a grotto. Karma Patrol amble about with bagels, water and hugs. I retire to the balloon room and the planetarium in the GCC; the former is suffocating, but the latter provides the necessary calm of a revolving ball with refracted light, and the company of high-as-a-kite Walter for my sleep.

Saturday morning at Renn Fayre means the beginning of the softball tournament. I am embarrassed on behalf of the idiot, who I see, from afar, is still donning the jumpsuit, not realising that people actually take RF softball kind of seriously. Well, seriously enough for sportswear. She has never played softball before, only British rounders, and she clearly has no idea what is going on. I hide in a tepee hammock and chart the mutations of the giant anagrams on the front lawn: PROUST, POT, POETS, POOP. Cars drive past on Woodstock with somewhat bemused faces looking out, but this is about as exciting as the anticipated RF border infiltration gets. To hear those damn Reedies talk about it in advance, I was half expecting Glastonbury Festival fence in the 80s. They even have a sinister sounding border patrol, which I think is wholly unnecessary and high-falutin. The Renn Fayre weekend is in fact consistent with my overall opinion of Reed: the outside would rather stay out, and the inside would rather stay in, and everyone's happy. For example, no one needs to see 50 or so painted blue, naked students before lunch on a Saturday, liberally embracing those who are neither blue nor naked. No one needs to see that. I would have appreciated some sort of warning.

Being imaginary, I manage to skip the 2 hour line for The Feast at 12pm, and tuck into an eclectic and ethnically confused plate of guacamole, houmous, biryani, mac and cheese, goats cheese and cranberry salad, roasted greens, smoked salmon, smoked lamb, brisket, chicken, ribs, and carrot cake. I shall concede - completely delicious, cooked by students, paid for by student donations, and far superior to anything I've had in Commons this year. The generosity and the schizophrenic menu make this the closest thing to a Harry Potter feast I have ever experienced. I spend the afternoon at the bug eating competition in the amphitheater, and a further sleep in the planetarium, before a night of fireworks, a glow stick rendering of Fantasia, and fire dancing. How much money does this college have? A silly amount of money, I'd say. But the 'surprise' in the S.U is just plain bemusing. Who on earth is Spank Rock? I bet the idiot pretends to know. I spot her shadow in the depths of the Peanut Butter and Jelly Station at 4am, and she emerges with a paper plate of gooey condiments, tottering back to her dorm. At 5 in the morning they play Stop Making Sense again in the S.U; I watch the sun come up with an impressive number of survivors.

Sunday is the best day; everything slumps to its close just as I begin to think that I quite like Renn Fayre, actually, and would like it to continue into Reading Week. I have chocolate fountain fondue for breakfast, supplemented by a cigarette dangling from the Sallyport arch on a string. There's Human Chess and a glut of free ice cream, a Mariachi Band, Super Duper Marimba Bros, and a final sweaty dance. Sunlight, too. An array of pimped up bicycles glitter all over campus - the penny farthing, the tandem with the trolley on one end and a full BBQ on the other, and the bike in a cage. In the end I decide it's time to reconnect with the idiot. I follow her to the Spanish House and, in typical voyeurism, earwig on her conversation with friends through the window. They are eating popcorn and nearly-sleeping. At 7 she decides to go home. The light outside is indigo. I practically have to carry her back - the International Plaza to Eliot Circle, to the lower route by the canyon, over the bouncy bridge, and, eventually, dorm and bed. She tells me she is floating, which I pooh-pooh and inform her that she is floating because I am supporting at least 60% of her bodyweight. We watch Doctor Who. She writes a To Do list for Monday with bloodshot eyes.

Consette x