“So, did you spend the night with the blond rich wanker or the dark haired posh twat?”

“You need to be careful around those posh boys when you go to Oxford. They may seem charming, but they’re not like nice dependable Yorkshire lads.”

“The Cavaliers’ Midsummer Party. Celebrate the lengthening of the nights with us. Dress like it’s your last night on earth. 21st June. Be ready and we will be waiting.”

“Harriet had half expected him to be wearing some bizarre 1920s underwear so was as relieved by his Calvin Klein’s as she was impressed by the bulge in them.”

“When you say he’s your soulmate, I think what you actually mean is that he’s utterly gorgeous and you’d really like to get him naked. Let’s not get too melodramatic here.”

“Harriet dreamt of someone well dressed and flamboyant, who spoke like the lead in a black and white film, who drank champagne like other people drank Carling and who could talk about history and philosophy and life for hours, without making themselves sound like an idiot. Someone who made romantic gestures, who was generous to everyone and extravagant towards her. Someone, for preference, who rowed and had the muscles to prove it. When she was really having a bad day, someone with a title. Every time a well-meaning access scheme leaflet tried to reassure her and all the other state school applicants that Oxford wasn’t wall to wall Old Etonians permanently dressed in tuxedos, she died a little inside.”

“I wasn't being a git. I wasn't even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms -”