The news that Wills would be attending our fine institution was met as it should be: downright cynicism and grumbles about elitism. However, as my sister and I justified our intellectual response with concern for the effect Will’s admission would have on access, I found my brain wandering back to Cambridge...trying to work out how many times I could justifiably walk down Lensfield Road in a casual manner befitting the making of a new friend, or whether I should just sack off the degree and start working on a farm in the hope that I’m his field trip.

Royal obsession is something you cannot choose; I have tried and failed to fight against it. Such is the love for the royals worldwide they are impossible to escape: sat in a café buried in the Caucasus this summer, it took three hours of loyally following coverage of the birth of Prince George before I realised I’d spent three hours watching the outside of a hospital building.

Attempts to put a stop to said behaviour prove futile – it’s only too easy to lapse into bad old habits and try to calculate where I am in line to the throne. Sadly I make it somewhere around 3000. My links to the Royal Family seem to end with the bastards of George III, and the land grants that should come with this amount to nothing: the discovery of drinking, gambling and buggery in the Bankes of yore robbed the 2013 generation of their ability to live in houses much bigger than they need, and make their every movement cherished news for millions.

Luckily, help is easy to come by. Indeed, most of my royal conversations seem to merge into a form of group therapy, as we collectively reel off our sins against obsession, while fondly remembering the time that Bekky nearly hyperventilated when Kate shook her hand, and then refused to wash it for more than a week lest she lose her connection to Mrs Wales. Here, tales of obsessively following blogs about European royal tiaras, spending more money on Duchy Originals than on heating, or swearing loudly at the baby Wills was drawn to at a meet-and-greet, are given proper air time. All the while we drink out of royal memorabilia mugs, and I am forced to admit I cannot remember when I abandoned the pretence that I was buying them ironically. Even the most ardent republican amongst us will admit that his decision to come over from Mallorca for uni was clinched by the hope of meeting Harry.

Little real therapy actually gets done at these sessions, as we all agree our obsession is wonderful and ought to continue unabashed. Indeed as I type this, Bekky is weighing up the logistics of camping in Cambridge for the next ten weeks, after her move to Chelsea to be mates with Binky failed to reap dividends. Fortunately I have a room, or I’d probably be joining her.