Cambridge, and university as a whole, is a great opportunity to move away from the people who you went to school with – unless you went to one of ‘those’ schools, in which case they might be living on your staircase. It is an opportunity to upgrade the objectionable public persona that you so scrupulously previously built up over a number of years, and perhaps even to claim that you can DJ.

However, I think that one of the most important aspects of this within Cambridge is that the relatively liberal environment here allows people to be far more explicit about, or even test out, elements of their sexuality. It’s great that we have an atmosphere where people feel that they are comfortable enough to dip into the shimmery, bath-temperature queer waters - perhaps even for the first time in their lives - and yet I want consider how it can feel from my perspective to interact with such a variety of different queers, as one of the shrivelled-up queers at the edge of the tub.

I feel like queerdom is my island, the home where I permanently live, and so it can feel complicated greeting people who aren’t sure whether they’re just here for a holiday, or for the long-haul. Longevity has absolutely no implications for anyone’s position within the LGBT+ community, or anything to do with your right to be in it, but it certainly adds complexity to the relationships that exist within the queer community.

At its worst, this can feel a bit like someone wearing the t-shirt of an underground band that you love, but which they only have one album of, and would probably go and watch a headliner on the main stage instead of them at Glastonbury. The worst thing about that response is knowing how totally irrational, childish, prescriptive and overly assumptive it is.

"Hearing anyone explain how they could easily choose to live as straight, or that they might not always identify as queer can feel a bit hurtful if you don’t have the same options"

This isn’t a feeling that can be explained away entirely by looking at the interaction between misogyny and biphobia, and examining how this has affected views towards female sexuality in particular. It is striking that biphobia directed at men is often based on the assumption that they are gay, while society is much more likely to assume that female bisexuals are straight, and to move in swiftly with bi-erasure as soon as they have any interaction with a man. However, this article isn’t about discrediting anyone’s right to identify as bisexual, queer or otherwise, but rather exploring the narratives we attach to it.

I think my difficulty comes much more from the fact that I can end up seeing someone with a really overt and proud conception of their queerness, much like my own, but also a lot of people who hypothetically refer to future husbands while on a date with a woman. A challenge of queerness is that it can be hard to tell whether someone getting into the pool is just having a paddle, or whether they want to make it into the deep end. What makes it harder is that someone describing themselves in a non-committal way could be a step in someone’s attempt to come to terms with their identity. This is added to the fact that previous experience is clearly no way to assess someone, and that the future is in any case a mystery, unless you happen to have a crystal ball lying about.

In my mind it’s clear that these sentiments are not rooted in any sort of nastiness, but it can feel worrying if you are someone so invested in your own conception of queerness, to be spending time with people who sound as though they have already planned out having a husband, three kids, and a Prius further down the line. It’s easy to see how, from my perspective, it can feed into an insecure sense that however hard I try, I might just be bypassed for Rita Ora (or a straight man) on the main stage someday.

‘We Need Some More Girls in Here’

The way in which sexuality, and in particular female sexuality, is now viewed as fluid and subject to change marks perhaps a healthier shift in discourses about identity. However, these same discourses of fluidity which  have brought so much to some people can also feel a bit scary if, like me, you see yourself as someone who might be a bit more fixed. Scarier yet is the idea that this perception might be impossible, and that all female sexuality inevitably shifts about. Although everyone should be honest about who they are and where they stand, the way in which these ideas are said at times should be adjusted to consider how they might affect someone who finds it fairly impossible to imagine queerness not being in their future.

As we’ve learned in my previous columns, there are plenty of things that make me annoyed – but this isn’t actually one of them. Everyone should be free to pursue whatever sexuality they like, and uncertainty or mutability are by no means characteristics that make someone’s identity less valid. Yet, hearing anyone explain how they could easily choose to live as straight, or that they might not always identify as queer can feel a bit hurtful if you don’t have the same options.

Sexual fluidity is a really helpful understanding of identity for some, but I feel as though sometimes more thought should be put into the implications of the fact that this might not reflect the life experiences of everyone. What represents a more nuanced and liberating view of identity for certain queers is also a sticking point for queers who would be really sad to see you leave the island.

In lighter news, this will be the last column in my series; even bad things must come to an end. This term I’ve had an amazing time exploring topics which are deeply personal to me, both reaffirming and shaping my views in the process. I haven’t gone out of my way to make anyone comfortable with this column, and whether it’s in feminism or queer politics I think this is important. Responses have ranged from some genuinely lovely and heartfelt messages, to some readers questioning just who the fuck I think I am. Well, I think I’ve been Mimi Robson; you’ve been a readership. Now piss off