Autumn has arrived and with it the annual assortment of unsolicited advice to the mythical fresher-who-reads-Varsity-before-term-has-even-started, where returning students get to complain about their struggles and brag about their personal growth in the name of an humanitarian fresher intervention. This opportunity was simply too good for me not to take.

Now — before you stop reading — I happen to be very well-versed in the canon; including classics such as ‘Just be yourself’ and ‘Just be yourself as-long-as-your-self-is-not-flawed’. I’ve also spent seventeen weeks of my life in Cambridge. And, although four of those were in legally required quarantine and it was raining during the remaining thirteen, I ended up stealing an umbrella for the last week, and those seven days taught me all there is to know. You’re welcome.

“Instead of just telling people to go away — as one would in more civilised countries — polite, but firm, umbrella pokes had the desired effect on the Brits”

Day 1

When I first left my room, I was young and naive. Since birth, I had spent every waking moment imagining coming to Cambridge and only hanging out with other Swedes and eating meatballs. Yet, there I was, in front of a plate of fish, chips and mushy peas — surrounded by Brits — tears filling my eyes as one, single, mushy pea escaped onto my white top.

Day 2

Slowly but surely, I came to accept that I was in England, as well as the language known colloquially as ‘English’. And suddenly Brits flocked around me, asking why they hadn’t noticed my existence before and if it's actually, like, really cold in Sweden. I soon understood that instead of just telling people to go away — as one would in more civilised countries — polite, but firm, umbrella pokes had the desired effect on the Brits. I was quickly able to master the exact amount of force required.

“Below the surface were strange creatures that were definitely not ordinary carp, no, these were sharks”

Day 3

By now, imposter syndrome was starting to hit. Everyone else seemed to have actually gotten into Cambridge. Meanwhile, I had created a fake academically rigorous identity, hired someone to attend my interview, bribed the admissions office when it was discovered — but still been rejected — and then had no choice but to break into college and secretly occupy an abandoned room all year. For a few milliseconds I even questioned if I deserved to be in Cambridge at all.

Day 4

The Buttery was only serving Toad-in-the-hole and things were looking generally dark, until I went for a walk in the wild western outskirts of Cambridge and stumbled upon a peculiar lake that looked like it might have been the result of an accidental chemical leak. Swimming right below the surface were strange creatures that were definitely not ordinary carp, no, these were sharks, puckering their smug little lips to try to convince me to have a swim. It was nice and cooling.

Day 5

Someone told me about the ‘Day 5 Blues’ and I swiftly signed myself up for some college counselling. Upon baring all my regrets and fears on Zoom, I was met with a resounding ‘poor you’: a ‘poor you’ quite unlike any ‘poor you’ I’d ever encountered. This ‘poor you’ was special. World-shattering. Never-return-to-college-counselling-ever-again impactful.

Day 6

I decided it was time to establish my Cambridge social media presence, and so I found pictures online of as many people as humanly possible, put my extraordinary photoshop skills to use, tagged random people in Cambridge, and finished it all off with the caption ‘totally obligatory photo dump’. I then sat back to watch the likes roll in and replied to strangers that they looked amazzzing too. Could life get any better than this? I wondered.

“Even if your first year is perfect, there is always second year. There will be more opportunities for mistakes”

Day 7

On my last day out, I armed myself with my favourite joke and set out to catch some actual friends (I was curious, okay). The first person I met began by announcing that his mum was a barista, which led me to start a strangely awkward discussion about what drinks his mum could make. We haven’t spoken since and only much later did I encounter the word barrister.

Fortunately, I had more luck with the second person I came across: self-described “successful, popular and low maintenance” Ben. Based on our similarities, we clicked immediately, and — despite being told that it would mess up the entire structure of this article — he insisted on being interviewed.

“So, Ben… Could you describe yourself?”

“Why, of course! Not only did I rank first in the year in statistics, but I’m also a keen rower, treasurer of multiple societies, member of a groundbreaking band, and have countless, countless friends — which says a lot considering I’m really good at counting.”

“Do you have any advice for freshers then?”

“Well, you’ve got to be what you’d refer to in business as a ‘clout chaser’. Ditch your old friends, drink and smoke excessively, distance yourself from God, only call your dad for two minutes every few weeks… wait, what’s this for again?”

“The fresher thing for Varsity???”

“... the newspaper cult?”

“That is one way to —”

“Could you mention to the freshers that I’m single?”

Concluding advice

If I may allow myself two pieces of serious advice, the first is to not be too judgemental. Not everyone will appear as nice as Ben; but, as he once remarked (in his posh south England accent), “there are many curiously endearing people at uni”.

The second, and final, piece of advice would be to ignore all serious advice. Let’s face it. You've got to find the answers for yourself by making your own mistakes. But don't worry! Even if your first year is perfect, there is always second year: there will be more opportunities for mistakes. At least that is what I tell myself.

Best of luck!