My freshers’ pack (a yo-yo, two balloons, a sachet of instant hot chocolate and a condom) is barely visible beneath English Historical Documents, volume 1. Two nights of dancing knee-deep in foam has taken its toll on my shoes, and I feel slightly tricked – encouraged to partake in a week of university-approved partying, and then, two days in, given a 19-item reading list and an essay due in for next week. School friends’ Facebook pages are torturous: three weeks into term at other universities, yet to hand in their first piece of work and seemingly out every night.
At dinner the conversation has morphed from ‘So where are you from?’ to ‘You haven’t started writing yet either, have you?’. College is awash with dazed freshers who, after two years spent thinking getting into Oxford was the final destination, have just realised that they have a lot of work to do.
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