At the end of last term, having packed my bags and regathered my dignity, I went to sign out at the Porters’ Lodge (a phrase so Cambridge it might as well be wearing a gown and vehemently denying elitism).

“Wayne!” I said, jovially addressing my favourite porter (I know, you’re not meant to have favourites, but you probably haven’t met Wayne), “please may I sign out?”

“Of course,” he responded, in an accent that I will refer to only as “Southern.” I smiled, ready to hand over my keys, but froze as Wayne continued, “on one condition.” I stepped back. What did he mean? “What do you mean?” I asked, well-known for my directness.

“You have to come back.”

It seems that the friendly figure of fun that was Wayne the porter had suddenly become Batman overnight. Or Liam Neeson. Or Clint Eastwood. If Clint Eastwood were the balding guardian-of-the-keys to both Newnham’s parcel room and my heart.

Wayne knew that I’d struggled with my first term. He had been a sympathetic ear to my troubles. (Troubles in this context, reader, means a ‘not insignificant dip in mental health.’) There was indeed a point in that term where I was considering not coming back after Christmas. But here I was, handing over my keys to Wayne, and saying “I’m coming back.”

“Being at home presented challenges, too. ‘Talking about Cambridge’ and ‘not sounding like a twat’ are pretty mutually exclusive things.”

Yes, I’d found it tough. I’d probably cried enough to make an extension of the Cam that I could link up to the River Mersey and row my way home (but that would involve effort and people thinking I row, so then again maybe not.) But on the other hand, I’d met some amazing people, I’d washed my clothes without wrecking them, I’d performed at the ADC and had more or less come out unscathed. As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you, doesn’t kill you. And not being dead is at least 46 per cent better than being dead.

Still, it was nice to be home. Driving under that sod-off enormous sign that reads “THE NORTH” made my heart swell a little. In the words of Guy Garvey, I was back, “in the town where they know what I’m like and don’t mind.” (Except he was talking about Manchester and I’m talking about a peninsula near Liverpool that you won’t have heard of.) The air felt cleaner, the food tasted better and the dishwasher looked not dissimilar to the Holy Grail.

Yet, being at home presented challenges, too. First, there was negotiating conversations with old school friends. ‘Talking about Cambridge’ and ‘not sounding like a twat’ are pretty mutually exclusive things. “I did X number of essays” comes out as “I’m basically Jesus.” “I went to a formal” comes out as “I ate a solid gold suckling pig out of a thirteenth-century bust of Eddie Redmayne’s head.” “I saw Stephen Hawking in my garden” comes out as “punch me in the face.”

And then there were conversations with family members. Conversations about what I’d done, whom I’d met, was I enjoying it, could I turn off the light when I leave the room, Communist Gran asking me if I’d beaten up any Etonians. I am very lucky to have the family that I do, but everyone knows that families are difficult. Christmas is marketed as a time for peace and goodwill, but I reckon it needs a footnote with “some murderous intent to be expected.”

Another hurdle to cross was nights out that started at 12pm and didn’t end until 6am. Night outs that involved wondering why there was a Drag Queen in Maccies, as you try and pull your friend up off the floor and help her pay for her food with a card that wasn’t her rail card. Nights out that made you wish you’d just gone to the pub.

After all that, as the holiday ended, I was suddenly reminded of my promise to Wayne (as well as the amount of Renaissance literature I hadn’t read – but mainly the promise.) Having been home from uni for six weeks, did I want to go back?

Did I?

I kind of did.

Was I looking forward to writing more essays, to deadlines, to my love-hate relationship with the Oxford English Dictionary? No. No, I wasn’t. But I was looking forward to seeing all my friends, to having my own space, a space where I was singularly and unapologetically ‘me’. To a place where I wasn’t the token gay, but so surrounded by gays I found myself thinking ‘I’m so bored of gays.’

I knew when I got back to that Porters’ Lodge, I would (somewhat inappropriately) wink at Wayne, as I pick up my keys and say “I told you so.”