It’s hard to be in Cambridge, as a first generation university student, and not feel like this place is physically trying to keep me out. The structures of this institution seem deliberately opaque: hard to see into, hard to get out of.

I tried to capture the feeling of isolation that pervades Cambridge. It's a city that has outgrown itself. Most industries have long gone, with the only product Cambrige has to sell being itself – on mugs, t-shirts and hoodies. The outskirts, especially around my college (Wolfson, in the village of Newnham) are devoted to sports fields: invaluable land that could house families and workers that is instead dedicated for students to have a bit of a kick-about.

Though the University's domination of the public space is almost complete – think, for instance, of how little of the city centre is available for you to pass through if you aren't a student – the collegiate structure means that almost every procedure (from disciplinaries to divestment) is amenable to change and, it feels, to change in the favour of those who already hold power. Though students continually push for change – and sometimes achieve it – colleges that have AUMs bigger than some countries' GDPs appear unaccountable.

Soon I will graduate, and I feel that my experiences will dissipate, while the material structures remain. The cycles of protest and reversion give Cambridge a feeling of institutional amnesia: students are here for such a short time that their efforts cannot change the corporation of Cambridge.

I bumped into a friend of mine five minutes after a massive protest with smoke grenades and megaphones.
“Did you see it?” I said.
“See what?”, he replied.