How to survive university

Teenagers are a tough bunch. We survive school, exams, driving tests, and all the other traumas of growing up. But if there's an event that instils fear in every young adult, it's moving out for the first time.

A year ago, I became a student at the University of Nottingham. After driving me down from North Yorkshire, my mother helped me unload my stuff, and then, with barely a hug or a tear, she left. The apron strings had been well and truly cut.

At first, I didn't really notice. I was straight out of my room, absorbing the environment that was to become my home. But sooner or later, it hits you.

I was sitting on my new bed (small, uncomfortable), looking at my new walls (whitewashed, bare), when I experienced a terrific feeling of emptiness. Here was a new city, a new home, with new people. I looked around, and for the first time in my life, I was familiar with nothing. It was a pretty scary experience.

However, I later found out my feelings were being shared by everyone in the hall. In fact, they were probably shared by every other fresher in the country. Leaving home isn't easy; if it were, we wouldn't wait 18 years to do it. But if you've made the choice to leave, you've got to make the most of it.

So I went out, and talked. I talked to my neighbour, his neighbour, and his neighbour. I chatted to the Brazilian along the corridor; the girl from Bradford and the lad from Brighton; even the nerdy-looking chap being strangled by his waistband.

"I couldn't meet everyone in my first week - there was over 300 people," a friend told me. "But I gave it a good try."

You speak to some people and within one minute - ok, 30 seconds - you know you'll never do it again. But you wouldn't know that unless you'd made the effort in the first place. The more people you meet, the more chance you've got of making friends. It's a matter of probability.

Also probable, when you tell people you're going to uni, is that they'll respond by reeling off a list of supposed truisms.

"You won't be doing any work. You'll be wasting all your money on drink, and out sha**ing every night."

The first two statements are largely accurate. The last, however, is not. Sensible and studious girls who worked hard at their A-levels do not suddenly turn into tarts with slack morals: it takes more than a wink and a vodka to make a student weak at the knees. Or maybe that was just my bad luck.

Another myth is that you must be drunk to have a good time. One of my friends abstains, and loved first year like everyone else - besides, a sober head to look after phones and keys soon becomes popular. But, when you're shy and short on conversation, a couple of pints can do wonders for your confidence.

With drink so prevalent, there's always one who overestimates his drinking capabilities and embarrasses himself. Last year - inevitably - it was me.

One night, I was walking back from the Union and wandered into Hall, down the corridor, and to my room. I had been drinking, and not just a couple of pints to help my confidence. I'm not sure how much I'd had - let's face it, no one ever is - but the lines of communication between brain and legs were definitely out of order.

I stumbled into bed, flicked on the light, and looked around at the horror unfolding around me. These weren't my posters.

Those weren't my books. This wasn't my room. But it got worse. There was a semi-naked man staring at me. "What are you doing in my room?" he asked.

"Is this not A27?" I croaked, still clutching to the vain hope that this was all a vivid, alcohol-induced dream.

"It is A27," he said. "But not in your hall. Now get out."

I'd stumbled into the next-door hall by mistake. But they do look the same, especially after a few triple vodkas. Honest.

By the next day, the story had spread around campus. Most people thought it was funny. Some thought it was perturbing. Either way, it was a good conversation topic.

In all those university Do's and Don'ts guides you've read, I bet you've never come across "Don't enter the bedroom of a stranger and ignite rumours about your sexuality." You have now.

In fact, there's an important "do" there. Do lock your door at night. You never know what sort of weirdo might walk in.

It just goes to show that, no matter how hard you try, there is no point in being someone you are not. You live and socialise with the same people for weeks on end. They get to know you, like it or not. For instance, if I'd tried to pass myself off as mature and sensible, the wrong-bedroom incident would have proved I was, in fact, a buffoon - with an alarmingly bad sense of direction.

Besides, there are so many people at university, everyone - even those with waistband issues - makes their own set of friends, regardless of who they are or what they like.

And yet there's more to the first week than the trifling matter of making friends. You've got to decide what clubs and societies to join, enrol for modules, register your student loan, and lots of other tasks too boring to mention.

It all leaves you thinking of home. That place where your mum helped you with your forms; where the hardest task was deciding whether to watch The Simpsons or Friends.

Going home in your first few weeks is a bad idea. The whole point of university is to become independent, to get used to living your own life. If you're back with your parents every couple of weeks, university will seem less like moving out and more like boarding school.

More importantly, there's nothing worse than coming back to your new friends to be told you missed out on "the best party EVER." Believe me, if you missed it, it will have been brilliant. I think it's called Sod's Law.

Anyway, with those daunting opening weeks out of the way, going home will be the last thing on your mind. Those bare walls become covered with posters, the strangers will become your friends, and the new city is a new home. University is a fantastic opportunity to have a great time and forge your own way in life. You might even do some work.

Wherever you go, enjoy yourself. Just remember which is your room.