The first formal that I electively went to happened a few weeks into my first year. I received the invitation when one of my flatmates managed to catch me on the stairs after a supervision. Back then, I was still unconsciously keeping my bubble of seclusion as intact as possible; I felt like a deer in headlights, unable to go up the stairs without being seen as blatantly rude.

Even with the express invitation I’d waited until the last possible second to buy a ticket, half-convinced that it would throw off the careful schedule of my essay. But I did buy one, formal hall with no wine (because back then I hadn’t realised I’d enjoy it). Even now, I enjoy the type of wine that no sane person (according to the castigations of my friends) is meant to enjoy – Rosés too crisp to be called a dessert wine but so sweet I’m always surprised at how light they taste, watery almost. I’d worn the same outfit that I’d worn to matriculation, a sensible white shirt and loafers that made my toes bleed through my socks.

I can’t remember who I was sitting with then, though they’re still my friends today; nor can I remember what I ate, or said, or really thought about the experience in the moment. But I can remember the initial coolness of the cutlery, the slight smell of smoke, and melting wax lingering above the food – only noticeable to me if I stopped and discretely sniffed the air. The conversation is staticky in my mind but the off-key, too-loud, Happy Birthday rings clear. I’d never before resented having my birthday lodged so deep in the winter holidays but in that moment (these moments), where an entire long table in the hall or even just a smattering of people make it their life’s mission to embarrass their friend with their sincerity, I wish, slightly, that I was born on a less auspicious date.

“My favourite places to eat with friends happen to be the places that this album excludes”

The autogenerated “Cambridge around the table” album in my gallery shows me exclusively photos from around tables, as the name suggests. Formals, mainly, intercepted by a brunch plate or an array of drinks on someone’s coffee table. There’s always at least one person in the photos; most of the time that person is me. I send most of these pictures to my mum, squinting through the soft haze of drunkenness to make sure I don’t send her photos I’d rather her not have. All these pictures are reminders of dear memories but not – and I hesitate to say this – the dearest. My favourite places to eat with friends happen to be the places that this album excludes.

Almost all of my favourite places to eat are outside, where there is no table or much of a stable, flat expanse. It’s a departure from my favourite spots to sit and enjoy my lunch in London, all of which include space for me to lay my read of the week and my notebook down while still having enough space to bring my laptop out and tap idly until something starts to take shape. Something about Cambridge drives me to the outdoors, to spots where I must make space to safely put down my food.

I spent some days in Michaelmas and Easter cautiously splayed out on the grassy quad at Sidge with my packed lunch balanced on my stomach, hoodie pillowing the back of my head, gesturing with half a carrot stick as I raved about all the things I would get up to once I had no more work. My grass allergy makes this a tough spot and, if I’m being honest, I sneeze more than I speak. The bodies of my friends obstruct the sun, the light haloing around their heads as they nod and smile and say, “that sounds nice, I think I’m just going to sleep for a week.” If not the grass quad – if we yearn for a change in scenery and I can convince them to part from the library for more half an hour – then I take them around to the nearest park, where I once saw two cows and sometimes go back with the hopes that they will be there again to share some earthly wisdom with me under the willow tree.

“It amazes me to be able to witness the fine details of a life in passing”

John’s backs are also a nice green spot to eat in. What we lack in cows, we make up for in geese. I sit on the incline of the riverbank and watch the punters, listening to them share facts with people on their boats. I learn the script word for word and mumble it under my breath, a poor rendition of their easy conversation. It amazes me to be able to witness the fine details of a life in passing. I watch the people who watch me, waving at babies and toddlers, picking at strawberries and popcorn and punnets of grapes until I’m pulled inside momentarily with the promise of pizza and a pint. The box anchors my picnic blanket to the ground, the pint half-drunk before I even cross back onto the grass so there’s “less to spill”. A dozen people have the same idea as me, all of them dotted along the curve of the river.

But the low wall of King’s Parade has seen me more than any other place in Cambridge. I never set out with the explicit purpose of sitting there, almost always sheep-herded by my friend who insists we don’t have to keep walking – we can just enjoy the moment, sit and talk like we always do. Perhaps they only insist we sit there because they know that once I start walking, I will keep walking forever, but once I settle into my stone seat I find myself unwilling to move. My lunch balanced precariously in my lap or an iced coffee dampening my thigh. Ice cream, sometimes, a melting mess all over my fingers. King’s Parade is almost always loud with the thrum of bike gears and chatter and the occasional elated shriek, but never loud enough that I can’t hear the conversation I am meant to be a part of. Here, too, is an ample spot for people-watching, for being afforded the warm, shadowing glimpse of a life for only a moment.

When asked where the best places to eat are in Cambridge, I never know what to say. I pull up the instagram food journals diligently run by my friends, reading their reviews and deciding, with them, whether they should pass up this spot or add it to their list. Privately, I think of the places far away from the table. Slightly uncomfortable, a tad too windy, but the perfect places to watch the world go by and be watched in turn.