The dust has blown off the Corn Exchange, city-wide sales of ProPlus have plummeted and students look less like a Ken Loach movie and more as if they have personalities.

Yes, Cambridge is, for a whole bunch of finalists, finally, final. We manage to deal with that Kilimanjaro of dirty washing in the corner; we make up for a term’s loss of alcohol tolerance, and remind ourselves that we have to phone our parents even when we have nothing to whine about. The hard work is over - we think.

In actual fact, it has only just begun.

Success in Cambridge, academic or social, produces sparse rewards, considering the time and effort so many lavish upon it. You will never be the next Hawking unless you acheive as many stars on the boards of Senate House as you discover later in life. But it is easy to forget – and Directors of Studies frequently fail to remind us – that there is no classmark on a degree certificate.

The sad thing is, when up to this point, we’ve only really lived a quarter of our lives. The majority of us secretly feel that we’ve lived 90 per cent - and that the other 10 per cent is left solely for the (inevitable) promotions and the babies we may or may not have.

Adding ‘Cantab’ to your name does not guarantee a one- way ticket to the top. University life really does stop here. Real life begins. Yet university photography companies make a fortune out of the fact that thousands of undergraduates want mementos of their soon-to-be-famous peers, which, supposedly, they will be able to sell to some celebrity memorabilia site in California or Kettering in a decade’s time. In fact, I wonder how many sepia-tinted, boat club dinner shots from the past now feature completely unfamiliar, merchant banker faces.

Biographers search frantically through university days to find some glimpse of the burgeoning talents of Cambridge celebrity alumni. But (excepting perhaps Jeremy Paxman) the traits such stars would later trade on rarely came out between breakfast at Nadia’s and formal hall. I can hardly see Richard Whitely walking down Green Street shouting “Give me a vowel please, Carol” to her room in Sidney Sussex, or Konnie Huq playing with toilet rolls and sticky back plastic between Economics supervisions. In case anyone cares, Margaret Thatcher studied Chemistry at Oxford, and didn’t go to a Conservative Party conference until her final year.

Indeed it seems that some nascent celebrities kept such a low proflle during their Oxbridge days that, in fact, they weren’t even there – take, for example Lord Archer’s time at Oxford [Brookes].

Let’s review the evidence, shall we? Nick Hornby’s first novel came out of therapy sessions in his early 30s, presumably to help with the disappointment of his 2.ii in English. “Studying English was useless, completely useless. Every time I tried to write, it sounded like a bad university essay.” Similarly, take Carol Vorderman’s Third, or Nick Drake’s second year drop out from Fitzwilliam. 17th-century troublemaker Titus Oates’ Tripos performance did not stop him from being tied to a post and whipped from Aldgate to Newgate.

But aside from the few upon whom fate’s bigoted smile shines, the hard work, should you choose to accept it, starts now. You will not become successful from trading on your Cambridge persona – I can name a few acquantances who, having left this place, pretend on Facebook (and on party invites) that they are still here, or, worse, are prolonging minor fame by staying for an ill-advised MPhil.

No, there is no Cantab gulf stream towards inevitable fame and fortune. In fact, life starts here.

Mary Bowers