I don’t know why, but for some reason when you get to your second year of uni people start acting like it’s your penultimate year. It’s so inconsiderate. The word ‘internship’ crops up too often in conversation. You never know when it’s going to rear its ugly, responsible head. For me, it’s like marmite: you either hate it or you really hate it. I understand that there are benefits. Maybe you follow someone impeccably dressed around for a week and do more than learn exactly how much soy milk to put into their coffee.

Okay, so maybe my perception of an intern has been somewhat influenced by fictional characters portrayed by Anne Hathaway. I get it, there are benefits. There must be. You get to explore different career options, and later, when you realise doing that was a complete waste of a month, you can kick back and reject with the sweet, sweet taste of making an ‘informed decision’ in your mouth. Oh, also, you might find out exactly what you want to do, I guess.

And you might befriend a Very Important Successful Person who will provide you in future with employment so you can have a house, a car, and a personalised garden gnome.

But I don’t think choosing not to scour out the perfect internship is necessarily irresponsible, or a rejection of future success. We are young. We are so young. Now more than ever is the time to while away the summertime. I don’t think we have to, or will, leave this place as confident adults with fully formed opinions about everything we want, and I can understand the desire to minimise the big scary openness of the world outside of inter-collegiate football matches and labelled staircases. And maybe for some people internships are the right way to learn more about themselves and what they want to do. But learning more about yourself, what you value, what you want to protect, and how you are going to do that, does not have to be about structured, planned work experiences.

We have time to wander.