DON’T weep. Don’t snivel when you give them a last hug. Don’t call them “babykins” in front of their new room-mates (especially if your baby is a strapping six foot rugby player). And above all, don’t spit on your hanky and wipe a smudge off their face.

Yes, it’s new student time again.

Cars are criss-crossing the country laden down with duvets, kettles, laptops, emergency food supplies and maybe even a few books, with a student squashed on the back seat in among them all.

On the way back the car is lighter, emptier and even the most sensible of mothers could be howling their way across Britain.

Getting a new student to university can be tricky. Here’s the etiquette.

  •  Make it snappy. They’re starting a new life. They don’t need you hanging around for too long. Think of it like pulling a plaster off – more speed, less pain
  • .Don’t talk to any other parents for any more than the bare minimum for politeness. Embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing.
  •  Or any other new students.
  •  And if you talk to any of the university staff you might meet, you realise that your student will be so absolutely mortified that they will have to leave uni, like right now.
  •  Give them a good meal before you go. Leave them with emergency supplies – home-made cake or big box of biscuits and plenty of tea/coffee.
  •  Encourage them to knock on their neighbours’ doors and offer to share these treats. Instant popularity.
  •  Make up their bed for them. I know, I know... but otherwise those nice new sheets might well stay in their case all term,
  •  If you’ve managed to smuggle their old teddy bear into the car without them noticing (And why exactly did you do this? They really are no longer toddlers. That’s the whole point,) then please, please don’t prop it up on the pillow. Social death.
  •  Quick hug, even quicker kiss, then go. This is their world, not yours. The sooner they get on with it, the better.
  •  Go home. Pour large drink and appreciate the silence. You’ll just have time to get used to it before they’re home again.

THE day after Hillsborough, husband and I were in Liverpool to write about it.

My car broke down outside the Adelphi and a gang of binmen came to my rescue. Two of them had been at the match. We sat on some steps in the sunshine and talked about it and I remember how angry they were. I didn’t think it would take 23 years for everyone to realise how right they were to be so angry.

One small good thing came out of Hillsborough: football writers always got carried away and considered a lost match a “ tragedy”, “a disaster”

or “a black day”.

For a while, at least, that stopped.

Hillsborough was a tragedy. The rest was just a football match.

YOU can tell the happy rosy tolerant glow of the Olympics has worn off pretty quickly – the bad boy T-shirt at the TUC conference includes the slogan that trade unionists will dance on Thatcher’s grave. A similar sentiment appeared in the Durham Big Meeting programme. As slogans go, it’s about as big and bold and brave as a five-year-old sticking his tongue out behind someone’s back.

Still, at least if you meet anyone wearing one, you can be sure that at least you can save time by not bothering getting to know them.