I’ve done it. I’ve finished First Year. A third of my university career is rapidly disappearing into my rear-view mirror (I don’t drive, but in the words of classic pop-punk band Say Anything, ‘It’s a metaphor, fool’.)

Coming to university has been like a baptism of fire, except the baptism is more of a cult initiation, and the fire is an alarming combination of essays and NatWest statements.

I’ve learned a lot over the past three terms at Cambridge. Not as much as I probably should have done about the English literary canon, but a significant amount of useful information nonetheless. For example, I learned that there are a lot of people in Cambridge who haven’t been informed as to the correct pronunciation of ‘bath,’ ‘path,’ ‘grass,’ ‘bastard’ and ‘laugh.’ I will endeavour to rectify this by the end of my second year. I learned that I am a wine drinker after all, and that if you write a column giving wholesome exam advice it will be shared 32 times, but if you get shitfaced and write one about what you think is sexy, it will be shared 151 times.

“Nothing is ever as bad as you think, nobody really knows what they’re doing, and you can do the things you thought you couldn’t”

I’ve learned that you won’t die of a broken heart. (You will, however, feel like you’ve been punched in the guts by David Haye.)

I’ve learned that my parents were right about a lot of things. Some of these things included that nothing is ever as bad as you think it will be, nobody really knows what they’re doing, and you probably can do the things you thought you couldn’t, you might just need a kick up the arse.

I’ve also found they were wrong about a lot of things, too – namely that it’s fine to mix colours and whites in the washing machine (provided that it’s the world’s crappiest washing machine, and frankly I’m surprised Newnham hasn’t made a tourist attraction of it yet).

They also told me that eventually you’ll get bored of eating pasta every night, which is just an objective FALSEHOOD really, and I’m thinking of writing my own cookbook: 101 Ways with Penne and Tinned Tomatoes. (It will have a helpful appendix entitled: ‘What to do when the ring pull comes off the tinned tomatoes and you don’t have a can-opener.’)

School was a fish-bowl (a further metaphor). You were with the same people for seven years, all whom sort of look, think, and act like you (in my case, the fish had varying degrees of skirt-length and scouseness, but I’m sure the experience translates.)

University is a somewhat larger fishbowl, but now there’s fish from all over the world, studying a staggering number of different things, trying on a hundred different personalities, sometimes getting through several in a day. You even find yourself doing it – in a single afternoon, I can range from ‘Kate Who Has To Bullshit About King Lear,’ to ‘Kate Who Doesn’t Want You To Know She Fancies You,’ to ‘Column Kate Who Won’t Shut Up,’ to ‘Kate Who’s Actually A Bit Scared But It’s Probably Okay.’ I’m not going spout any ‘University of Life’ nonsense, because I’m not your dad, but if this sounds familiar – if you’re not quite sure who you want to be, or what’s going on – that’s what it’s for.

It’s strange seeing some friends finish their degrees and go off to do that ‘being a proper person’ thing. It’s strange to think that in another two years that will be me. I don’t really like retrospection too much, or thinking ahead too much, or thinking (supervisions have been interesting), but I can say I do like finding the little things. And my first year at university has been full of little things: getting some nice essay feedback, Jesus Green at 5am, cooking dinner with mates, finding out someone you’ve just met has an extraordinary hidden talent. These things have occasionally been offset with some less-good things too, but I suppose life is a bit like that: ‘Crap/Good.’

That’s it then. First year: check. I hope whatever you do this summer makes you excited, perhaps financially viable, or even just a bit happy. Give yourself a pat on the back. And maybe a stiff drink