AH, Freshers' Week.
I remember it well. Actually, I say that, but if truth be told it's all a bit of a blur. Random snapshots of memories comprising lairy pub crawls, 50p vodka shots in dingy bars with sticky floors, kebabs for breakfast and signing up for a clutch of clubs and societies that, despite such good intentions, I would never ever darken the doors of.
While I envy the carefree days ahead for the raft of students arriving at universities across Scotland, I wouldn't be 17 or 18 again if you paid me. Like painfully ploughing through Tolstoy's War and Peace or being kicked in the face by a Blackpool donkey, when it comes to Freshers' Week, it's fair to say that once in life is more than enough.
But that's not to say it isn't fun at the time, a rite of passage filled with jaw-dropping epiphanies such as the realisation that from now on you are going to have to wash your own socks, cheap noodles will form your staple diet and you can do wonderfully grown-up things like buying a potted plant to brighten up that gloomy student flat.
There is the heady sophistication of moments like trying red wine for the first time at a faculty social mixer, only to end the evening throwing up into a hedge in leafy Morningside as a passing dog walker kindly holds back your hair.
Never mind. You'll be back out there the next night, turning cartwheels through the city streets, downing Jagerbombs and dancing on top of a bar as you sing Abba's Dancing Queen while hugging your new BFF, a dreadlocked hippy chick in kaftans who you bonded with over a mutual appreciation of David Hasselhoff.
Granted, there are the inevitably mundane parts like having to buy academic textbooks and picking up your class timetable. No matter how many gallons of vitamin C drinks you consume, you will never successfully ward off freshers' flu.
But rarely will you feel lonely as there will be always be plenty of company on that inevitable walk of shame back to your flat or halls of residence.
Few things put your own pounding hangover into perspective like seeing someone dressed as Fred Flintstone or a bedraggled Audrey Hepburn - looking more akin to Patsy from Ab Fab - spectacularly fail to blend in among the early-morning commuters.
And if that damned potted plant makes it all the way to Hallowe'en without wilting, you're a better horticulturist than I am.
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