Well, it’s that time of year when the youngsters pack up their parents’ cars with duvets, pillows, pots, pans, books, desk lamps and other paraphernalia associated with starting the next phase of their lives in higher education.  Across the country, motorway middle lanes are packed with vehicles whose windows are obscured by all the trappings of impending independence as new students are delivered to their halls of residence at universities throughout the land.

Excitement, uncertainty, dread, sadness.  All those emotions, they’re all there in those cars too.

I recall that journey over to Leeds twenty six years ago.  It was a sunny Saturday morning and I had no idea what or who would greet me.  As it turned out, on entering the kitchen to the flat where I’d share with five others, the answer was nothing other than a drab 1970s breeze-blocked room, from which led the corridor to the bedrooms and bathrooms.  There was nobody there yet, but evidence of another presence existed in the fridge where Mum deposited some perishables.  What to do?  Hang around and wait, or bugger off back home and come back tomorrow?  I took the latter option, although I think I may have left a note introducing myself, saying that I’d be returning the following day.  At least that’s what I’d have done if I wasn’t a socially inept person.  I’m no longer certain of the reality.  But when I finally did get round to introducing myself to my new flatmates, many of my apprehensions evaporated.  They seemed a lovely bunch, much better adjusted than me, and I was made to feel welcomed and part of something new and exciting.

There was one girl who was on the same course as me, Biochemistry SINGLE honours, and I figured we’d be BEST mates because of this.  You know, because scientists are bound to be much more sound and grounded than those arty types.  [I had only just turned eighteen at this point and had many life lessons to learn.  I still do].  There were the girls who were doing non-subjects like English and Philosophy, Psychology, and something else.  Of course we all discussed our recent A level results, our families, where we came from, how much grant we were getting from our local education authorities.  It was the first time in my life that I’d heard of the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme – who knew? And some of them were vegetarians, although they ate fish, so that made them sort of normal.

There were discussions about social events, Freshers’ week (or “Intro” week as it had been renamed) shenanigans, bands who were due to play at the Union, things that were going on in town.  “What?  What about, you know, getting on and studying?”  I was acutely aware that, since I didn’t receive a full grant, my parents were subsidising me heavily and I wasn’t going to disrespect that by not making the absolute most of my studies.  I still can’t figure out how some people whose parents both worked full time in well paid jobs got a full maintenance grant and me, with my dad a factory worker and mum working one night a week as an occupational health nurse got less than half.  Still, I can’t complain when compared what happened with student fees and loans in subsequent years.

Our only contact with home was via letter or pay phone – this was a card phone, one per block, that was situated on the landing outside our flat’s kitchen door.  Each night there was a long queue to use the bloody thing and we’d stand on the chair, looking through the spy hole to see when the current user was about to finish their conversation so that we could leap out and grab the receiver as soon as they hung up.  Of course, having the phone outside our flat meant that we had to take calls for every other bugger in the block, but it didn’t seem to matter than much.  I’m sure I phoned home every single night.

When we weren’t shut in our rooms studying, we spent many hours around the kitchen table, sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs.  We sometimes treated ourselves to some booze, we sometimes sang (badly) to our music – I recall that Deacon Blue’s Raintown, The Best of the Pretenders, and Prefab Sprout’s Steve McQueen were favourite collections of ours.  I taught them how motorways were numbered as we drew pictures of Viz characters for the kitchen wall.  A lot of the time, we joked and laughed and put the world to rights as only eighteen year olds can do; with me pitting my black and white, working class conservative views against the leftie, middle-class Guardian readers.  As now, I would leave a discussion with my well-educated, well-thought out “You’re talking crap” argument.  But then, as now, my affection towards those who I came to consider true friends never wavered.

In a few short weeks after being driven along the M62 from Manchester to Leeds that beautiful Saturday morning, I met a few people who I am very pleased to still have in my life today.  I also met some complete wankers, but life is nothing without filtering.  In those weeks, as the leaves fell from the trees and the temperatures dipped (Leeds is so much colder than Manchester), I learned how to study, I learned that physical chemistry was a necessary evil and that if I ever met Raymond Chang (author of Physical Chemistry with applications to Biological Systems) I’d need to have words.  I learned that in the rest of country “pants” meant “knickers”, not “trousers”.

So now, as the new students come to the university where I work, I really should curb my impatience and remember just how scary it can be for those youngsters who are adjust to many new things… like learning how to use a revolving door.  I’m sure even I could operate a revolving door when I was that age.