The first question for this entry is where do I start describing what I got up to last night, and the second is how much detail should I go into. It all started, I suppose, about mid-morning, when, during a coffee break in the film festival, I noticed a fairground ghost-train being erected at the back of the Wesley centre (the campus canteen). As you can imagine, this made my mid race: what, exactly, were they planning for the Friday the 13th summer ball? It certainly seemed extravagant. In short, I had deduced that the night was either going to rule or suck, but either way it would be a night to remember.

The sighting of the roller-coaster had me squealing with excitement all afternoon. At one point Esther asked what was up with me. I always have squealed like a child when excited, and I think some of my friends gave me odd looks of concern. I needed to calm down, but I could not wait. I had never been to anything like this before, never seen such a cultural event first hand. At about three, after the film festival had heard Dr. West-Burnham’s closing speech about the irony of calling film studies a “Mickey mouse degree”, I could not help counting down the hours until 7pm. This was a mistake, for when one does this, time seems to drag.

Nevertheless, seven eventually came. At that hour, Bill was busy coaching footballers, so I had arranged for a friend of mine to help me on with my costume. One could argue that I was inappropriately dressed, but the theme was ghouls and ghosts, and I doubt anything can be more scary than a spastic in a bunny costume. Thus at about quarter past 7, I was on my way to the wes, only to find the place deserted.

“where is everybody?” I asked Stuart the barman

“whoa! Just you wait, matt, they’ll be here. Have a free punch.”

The problem with rabbits is their ears. Luckily evolution has seen to it that a real rabbit’s ears are firmly attached to their heads. I was not quite so lucky, and the plastic headband with large ears kept slipping off my head. After about three attempts at trying to keep them on, and failing, I asked Luke, the burly barman, to place them behind the bar for safe keeping. I think they’re still there.

Even without the ears, girls seem to think I look cute in my bunny outfit. As the evening wore on, a great many girls wanted to hug, kiss ad have their photo taken with me. It was a beach party too, so many girls (and one boy) were in bikinis and grass skirts. It was very difficult to stop my head involuntarily swerving to look, and spilling my drink in the process. Nevertheless, I always seemed to have company last night.

At one point, I got talking to a guy in bright green fishnet tights. His name was Owen, and dad would say he was “as gay as they come”. If the truth must be told, I found him pretty. This has perturbed me of late, for if I was gay how could I have felt so passionately about Becca? Recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am bisexual, as that way it doesn’t matter who I fancy. End of internal debate.

I spent the night going back and forth between the Wes and Brandies, as there was a disco in both. In Brandies, there was a live band with a guitar player capable of some sublime solos. They played covers of everything from the Beatles to Queen to Robbie Williams. I simply had to dance to their cover of The Darkness’ “a thing called love”, making fool of myself in the process. The place was thumping, the house band ruled, and I was very happy.

Yet all of the above leads up to the main happening of the evening. On Wednesday nights I often see a girl from the Crewe campus. Until last night we had not spoke, but I had wanted to say hi for a while. She has CP too, although not as severe as mine. I had always been reticent of going up to her – after all, we only share a neurological condition and nothing else. I reasoned that she would not like to be singled out, so I let her be. Yet towards the end of the evening, I was sitting down, nursing a small burn from some accidentally spilt cigarette ash, when the girl came to sit by me. Ironically, she had been wanting to say hi to me all year too. I have always been of the opinion that, as a subculture, we disabled must stick together to remain strong, but was afraid she would not agree. Either way, Lucy and I got chatting over a beer, and thus became friends. I said we must do lunch together sometime – what a disgustingly American phrase that is – and she agreed. I’m looking forward to that lunch, for she seems intelligent and astute. For some reason, I have always been more comfortable with fellow crips – they have more of an idea of where I am coming from.

Hence, the six hours between seven and one flew by, as if the god of time had been saving his energy by going slowly the previous six hours for a sprint. As the lights of the bar rose, I went back home, wondering if beer washes out of nylon spandex.