Adventure time with Key and Stef

Welcome, my friends, to an account of one of the most shambolic nights of my life.

Those of you that know my housemate Stephanie Le Jamtel and I on a personal level, will be aware of our tendancy to get ourselves into an array of amusing, yet potentially hazardous ‘scrapes’. I am the Boo-Boo to her Yogi, she is the Mutley to my Dick Dastardly…

…Tonight, was of course, no exception.

It all started at an engagement party, the kind in which you find yourself drinking too many cocktails and questioning life. Stef and I found ourselves combating a mixture of sleep deprevation, illness and discomfort (high shoes) by inhaling the helium from the party balloons. We sang a rendition of ‘Defying Gravity’ and then went on to impersonate the aliens from Toy Story.

This continued for half an hour (yes, half an hour) until we were well and truly hyped, as  well as a little light headed.

As time drew on, we decided to make our excuses and leave. However, this was not before we lifted every item of food we could possibly manage. We filled our bags with cupcakes, brownies and falafel, and managed the theft of not one, but TWO pringles tubes.

We left the party, content, unaware of the horrors that would soon befall us.

After an hour waiting at the deserted platform at Sandhurst Station, we began wonder if there was something someone was not telling us…

To pass time we sang songs by our favourite artist: ‘speak’ the Hungarian rapper (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saOcunGi1a8) and ran across the railway tracks (just because we’d never done it before)

Another half an hour passed, and by that time, we had been sat in the freezing cold for a long time, and the liquids we had drank had started to catch up with us. We decided to venture across the tracks to a local pub, just below the station.

When in the pib we were instantly accosted by a group of “men” who instantly assumed that calling us ‘ladies’ and enquiring into the food we were carrying would get them laid. We made our way through the hoardes of pervy men to the promised land…the ladies toilets.

When in the toilet, I had the bright idea of fitting us both into the cubicle…VERY BAD IDEA. The landlady…Obviously noticing the attention we had recieved from the locals was soon banging on the door (as I was in mid pee.) She informed us that it was not a public toilet and instantly accused us of snorting coke.

I, being a champion blagger, managed to convince her that we were actually both fantastic human beings, who more than deserved to pee in her toilets.

Luckily for us, she bought it. She even managed a smile.

Back at the station, we wondered if our time was up, and started making plans to set up shop in Sandhurst for the night. We then climbed the station sign in a bizzare kind of recognition.

During this, I ripped my tights.

After three more phone calls (Will Free, a friend from Cardiff, Fran Gardiner, resident housemate and Jonathan Boyd, resident boyfriend) a train pulled up at the platform.

In complete Euphoria, we jumped it, without realising that it was infact taking us further and further away from our destination…

…On the train, there was laughing and singing. We thought we were finally going home, and even managed a reprise of our ‘Speak’ tribute, but, on arriving at Wokingham Station (again, deserted), we realised that we were infact, stranded.

A nice man told us that we were, in the nicest way, screwed, as the train that would take us back to Egham had stopped running hours before.

Another forty five minutes passed, Stef and I found ourselves desolately waiting for some kind of a solution.

Seven pounds between us meant that the sixty pound taxi fare was impossible, and an abundance of wine was preventing Fran from jumping to our rescue (as she so usually does.) We called the Reidie, we called Rachel, we called everybody, but no one could help us.

It seemed we were doomed to spend a night in Wokingham.

Then quite per chance a glowing aura from a nearby Taxi caught my eye. “That,” I thought, “looks like a good taxi”.

I walked over and asked how much it would be for the driver to take us to Egham. He replied that he could offer us a fixed fare of 38 pounds.

This was better than the sixty pound we had been told earlier.

Stef said she would be able to withdraw said amount from her bank account, which meant we would only be twenty pounds each poorer…

Very soon, we were on our way.

In the cab, we mourned our lack of money and sung miserably, when, in horror, we remembered the baked goods we’d shoved in our bags hours earlier…

…”Squished” does not even begin to describe the mess we encountered when opening our bags.

After an arduous 30 minute journey, which probabaly should have cost us more, our taxi brought us safely back to the white house.

We offered the driver a squished white chocolate and rasberry cupcake and proceeded to spend the rest of our night picking icing off of our valuables.