‘Honestly love’: two words which, in the north of England, serve as the preface to every single piece of romantic advice you will ever receive. Par example: ‘Honestly, love, he’s not worth it…’ Ironically, this column is not about giving advice, mostly because it is written by yours truly, a self-confessed novice in the world of romance. Inadvertently, however, I’m sure you’ll learn from my mistakes. As you read my weekly musings, you’ll probably realise that I’ve done or said something idiotic before I even have the slightest awareness of it. This is what this column is about: love, romance, dating and all the laugher, tears, doubt and fun that accompany them.

If I had attempted to write anything like this before I came to Cambridge, I know that it would have been very different; this bizarre and magical place changes almost everything about you. Like many of you, I saw beginning university as a fresh start, a chance to lose the personal insecurities that had plagued me for most of my life and thus blighted any romantic endeavour. This lack of confidence resulted in my near-constant transformation from almost transparent to beetroot upon talking to anyone remotely attractive (circa 2011-2013) – not a good tactic for romance.

Upon moving to Cambridge, rather than just let these self-doubts slip away, I decided to try and understand them and in doing so I became comfortable with them as part of my personality. How on earth had I finally managed to do this after all those years? At first I thought it might be due to the increased intake in alcohol, but then I realised that it was due to a much more potent drug – people. I had finally found my kind of people, and they were everywhere: at bops, in clubs, on swaps, and even in (gasp) 9am lectures. With this epiphany came the addictive part of the substance – possibility. For the first time in my life, I felt attractive. Possibility even became reality on a few occasions. 

Of course, it took a while for me to harness this new power; many drinks were refused due to sheer panic, chat-up lines were inadvertently ignored as a result of a combination of disbelief and inexperience, but perhaps worst of all was my escape tactic in clubs – literally running away (I like to blame the vodka for this one). Eventually I was able to calm down and replace the running with an awkward shuffle-dance away; admittedly, still not great but hopefully less alarming.

By the end of Michaelmas, the entire dynamic of my love life had changed utterly. But the journey is far from over and, during the next few weeks, I’ll be taking you on that euphoric, depressing and downright crazy journey with me. I’m sure that many a time this term, both you and I will be asking: honestly love, why the hell are you doing this to me?