I had to write this down: the Caterpillar Angel

The first ever night out of second year should have been bloody fantastic. Finally back with university friends and headed to the union, we had drinks at someone’s house beforehand and then set off. Should have been fantastic: was horrendous.

It seems bizarre to me that the mere beginning of the tale is that I completely lost my debit card, ID and money (as well as the bag they were in) during the walk from pre-drinks to the union. I later realised this had happened because I put my purse in the pocket of my shorts; unfortunately for me, those shorts do not, in fact, have pockets. A grand start to a grand night.

A kind (pragmatic) friend helped retrace my steps in search of my valuables while the rest of the group went into the club, but it turns out that streets are actually quite dark when it's dark. So I instead hoped my belongings might just be at her house from earlier –  she went to the club, and I set off in the opposite direction, to her house, mortified and angry. I stropped back through the student living area of Hyde Park, grimacing over “Where are you?!” texts from friends I’d promised to meet. This is a bad omen, I couldn’t help but think as I trudged along, kicking at scraps of rubbish on the pavement in tipsy annoyance. If I’m stupid enough to do this on the first night, I’ll probably be dead before graduation. And someone’s probably going to find my cards tonight and thieve my identity and join UKIP under my name or something equally distressing.

True disaster then hit. A good fifteen minutes away from my house, and now aware of the considerable time that had elapsed since we had first left pre-drinks, I realised I needed the toilet. Quite an alarming and acute realisation, actually, and I had a desperate moment of fervently wishing I were a man just so as to deal with the situation efficiently there and then. But in this instance, #ThisGirlCannot, so I started to pick up speed a little, half trotting down the hill. Of course this only worsened the situation and so, to distract myself, I started humming quite loudly. At least their house is a lot closer than mine, I told myself. Priorities were clear at that moment: pee, then purse.

I was in physical pain and humming very loudly before I finally reached familiar streets and wound my way to the cluster of roads where pre-drinks had taken place. Dozens of my friends lived in this area, I reflected, but at the start of the year nobody had directions by heart yet. And directions are not my forte anyway. Earlier, I had in fact briefly already worried that one day I would get confused between the roads and houses entirely and turn up at the wrong one.

…And just as my bladder was about to pop like an over inflated birthday balloon (probably incurring shrieks of terror in the same way), I realised this exact fate of street-confusion had befallen me. I peered at the row of houses as if through a kaleidoscope, the same black doors and identical living room windows over and over, and blinked. Confused and stranded, I hopped around the darkened street humming louder and louder – and soon admitted to myself that I had no way of identifying where they lived. And this really wasn’t about my belongings. It was about my bladder.

Then, just when I had reached the critical moment – having to decide whether to flat-out sprint for home (would I even make it?) or literally wee on someone’s door step (ah, the bright undergraduate lives we lead) – a giant caterpillar loomed in the window directly in front of me.

It was a huge caterpillar, seemingly orange-hued although unclear in the dim streetlight, standing upright. My tuneless hum trailed off. I was not frightened, per se, but rather in awe: this caterpillar was not just big, it was giant, floor to ceiling it seemed to me, with wise eyes behind glasses. Good grief, was this possible? Could a backed up bladder provoke miraculous hallucinations? Is this the old wives’ tale I was never warned of: neglect your bathroom needs for long enough and you’ll see enormous insects in spectacles?

My mouth dropped open and I stood, transfixed on the pavement, still hopping a little from foot to foot, surveying the great, shadowy beast silhouetted up against the glass. It calmly lifted its hand, waved in slow motion and then beckoned. It appeared to be speaking. What messages did caterpillars generally have for university students who need the bathroom so badly they’re getting vision impairment? As if stuck in treacle, I took a sluggish (ha) step towards it, squinting slowly as I tried to lip read through the double-glazing –

“LOUISA!” the caterpillar said, jolting me sharply from my hazy trance by rapping its knuckles on the window. “What are you doing?”

“I REALLY really need to use your toilet,” I told him straightforwardly, ignoring that he knew my name (you can’t question miracles), and the caterpillar shuffled backwards, out of sight. After a brief panic that my guardian angel had disappeared, relief struck: the front door unlocked in front of me. Holding back my tears of pain and hoping my body wasn’t about to collapse in on itself, I focused my wearied eyes.

The human-sized caterpillar was actually my human friend Oliver. He was standing upright inside a sleeping bag. “Heating’s broken and I don’t have a duvet,” he informed me solemnly as I sprinted past him in a blur of gratitude.

Afterwards, I sat down for a nap, fell off the sofa and then finally went home, but that isn’t entirely to the point. That night made me question myself (if only it had taught me to look after my valuables too. We’re still working on that).

Why was that the door in front of which I happened to stop, desolate and convinced that my time was up? Why was Oliver in his living room trying to snatch bits of phone signal at that precise moment? Why on earth is it my instinct to trust oversized larvae in the hope that they can provide me a toilet?

One lesson learnt overall: go to the toilet before you leave pre-drinks, alright? Promise me you’ll do that. Because I was blessed, certainly – but we can’t all have gigantic pre-pubescent butterflies coming to our rescue.