Someone who firmly believed that dunking her freshly painted nails into cold tap water would make them dry faster is definitely not someone who should be allowed to live alone, but here we are. Coming to university meant escaping my mother’s incessant nagging to tidy my room, breaking my unreasonable 10pm curfew and, more generally, having to be an adult.

In more ideal circumstances, adulting would not mean having to share a bathroom and kitchen with up to ten other people, judging you for cooking up the same sorry-looking pasta for the fifth day in a row. However, student accommodation usually does not afford us this luxury: nor does it, as I found out last year, even provide us with all necessary amenities on one floor.

I was forced to work off my poorly cooked student meals by trudging downstairs to a toilet that was essentially a cupboard. I had to go even further for a bathroom that actually possessed a sink - hygienic.  

I have also struggled with the freedom that comes with 'adulting', which mostly means the freedom to make some really poor life decisions. During a routine breakdown, I spontaneously decided to dye the ends of my hair pink, not realising this would tinge the shower with a rosy hue. The time I then spent scrubbing the now-blushing surfaces with toilet paper could have easily been spent writing the essay that I had been stressing about in the first place. You live and you learn.

"Just know that most of us are just trying to train ourselves not to have a mild heart attack every time the fire alarm is tested"

But the bane of my existence is college fire doors. Why do the doors in student accommodation lock as soon as they close? It’s like they’re waiting to catch me out. The college porters now know me by name, from the sheer amount of times I have sheepishly slithered into the plodge to ask for a spare key. One particularly unlucky day I managed to lock the spare key in my room and the porters caught a glimpse of the swamp I call my home in the process of saving me.

An even more ridiculous account of my ineptitude would be my attempts at laundry. So far they have given me a new set of pastel clothing and shrunk a brand-new sweater from a crop top to what can only be described as a bra.

So whether you’re cooking yourself three beautiful meals a day and living your best life or (literally) crying over spilt milk, just know that most of us are just trying to train ourselves not to have a mild heart attack every time the fire alarm is tested. And most of us are failing.