. . .Bash

Dresses were torn, sweat dripped. ankles were bruised, food was eaten, drink was spilt, women were kissed, freshers were shocked—that was Freshers' Welcome.

Bods, some groaning under the satisfying diet of the Social Committee's supper (if they could get at it) and others just groaning, clung together, or if they were Freshers, shuffled aimlessly round and round the Gym.

Conversation was limited to "Are you a fresher?" "No, this is my 4th year." How fresh are you?" "Will you be fresh with me?" "Come into the cemetery, Maud." and other little niceties of polite conversation. The hall was tastefully decorated with old pieces of rope, basketball goals, Biology Society notices (hep! hep!) and a loverly stag's head. (The stag was left over from the Biology Soc. dance.)

Wound round the mike was that homme fatal, Warren Johnson, who compered the dancing(?) in his usual inimitable manner. This Freshers' dream set many little hearts adancing but Warren was too busy with the band (which incidentally included a very lush thrush) to give them his full attention.

Seen on the floor were the usual couples, plus many we haven't seen there before. Taken in all Freshers' Welcome was the usual, bash, hash or dash that we have seen in 18991900-1901, 1902 (dear Jean, we are trying to make up our 200-300 words—Doris and Heather)—1947, and now in 1948 we take this opportunity to state that if Freshers show the same fortitude as they did on the dance floor on the night of March 5th last, they will go far in their College careers.