It is a belief popularly held that when your children move away to university, it is emotionally harder for the mother than the father. This is down to her having been the one who gave birth, and therefore her biological instinct is harder to placate once the child has left. I have heard women profess this as a cold, hard truth, including two I really trusted. I remember thinking, “fair enough if that’s what their experience has taught them.”

You can imagine my amusement when I posed this theory to my mother and she swiftly replied, “no, I don’t agree, that’s rubbish.”

(That’s the great thing about mother figures. They blow open social stereotypes and deliver breath-of-fresh-air reality checks.)

Is this belief an invalid view? Of course not. However, I know from my elder sister’s university departure that my father was no less grief-stricken than my mother. The only one who didn’t shed a tear was me. (Not the first time anyway. To all younger siblings out there who think they’ll be loving life when the older one leaves home, let me tell you, that feeling will last one whole day. In the long term, you will be more thrilled when you hear that they’re returning. Then you’ll be the one sobbing like a muppet when they leave again.)

This month, Generation Covid finally moved on to lives beyond school. It was thus also the time for many Wymondham parents/carers to say goodbye to their children. (Several pals have told me that ‘mum got a bit teary’ or ‘it was a bit difficult when they left me’, etc. etc. I was lucky enough to avoid that ‘difficulty’. My parents said goodbye without a tear in sight. In fairness, they spent the weekend with me in Edinburgh and thus had time to get used to it. It wasn’t because they missed my sister more, although that has become an amusing joke on family Zoom calls.)

We arrived in Edinburgh on the Friday after the Queen’s death, and I moved into student halls at seven o’clock that evening. The first lesson to learn was about ‘cliques’. We’ve all experienced ‘cliques’ and how impossible they can be if you’re not one of the group. I’d have expected, however, at least a few days for them to form. Not so. This was Day 0 of university life, and yet students were walking around the campus in little groups. Small gangs of girls cemented together. Tall, sporty-looking guys who were already arranging to go “out to the pub with some mates”. I thought, “how?! You’ve been here all of five minutes!”

I felt deflated. The social element was one of the things that excited me the most. To anyone in that situation, don’t worry really. Any pair of students in halls will lead extremely separate lives, so you’re unlikely to find your best, most regular friends immediately. That isn’t to say, of course, that you don’t meet some genuinely lovely people there, but I still struggle with many of my neighbours’ names (and vice versa). Your full-time friends pop up in your classes. Your societies. Your sports activities. The ones who live near enough that you can walk home the same way each day, without living right next to each other.

I was also relieved that I hadn’t cut ties with people back home. Initially, it’s a rather romantic idea to leave home and completely restart, severing everything that reminds you of horrendous A-Levels. This is a romantic idea and no more. Maintaining contact with (selected) school pals is vital, and never more so than in your first weeks elsewhere. Establishing a new life takes time. My Wymondham pals and I frequently get in touch to swap tips and stay sane. You will be grateful to them.

The next few days were an amalgamation of everything that makes Freshers’ Week both fun and mental. The frenzy of, “what societies do I apply to?” “All these people I’m meeting – will I ever see them again?” “Why does everyone go clubbing at night?”

I quite hate going clubbing, though I was persuaded twice in Welcome Week. The first time, I stood in the pub with my glass of iced water chatting to the girl who invited me about the best Bond films. I left at 10:30. The second time, the event purported to be a ‘Ceilidh’ dance. I’ve been to Ceilidh before, and this really wasn’t it. The “dance floor” was barely visible amidst the drunk people tripping over one another, and you couldn’t hear yourself talk, let alone the guy supposed to be instructing the dance! I left at 10:44.

A trusted source told me that everyone is faking it in Freshers’ Week and is relieved to get on with the academia. I can vouch for that. Wymondhammers considering university (or parents with children in that position), go for it. The first few days are bizarre. They also contain many positives. I met some very kind classmates, one of whom I went climbing with. The lecturers are brilliant, often hilarious people who treat you completely differently from school. Living in a new city gives you much-needed autonomy. The Freshers’ shenanigans are real, but ultimately, you will be absolutely fine.