The first month.

What a month.

That’s the one phrase I can think of right now to describe what really has happened. Truthfully, most of it wasn't a blur, or a haze, it was as vivid as the sunlight starting to creep inside my room as I blog. I've managed to already secure a nickname known by a majority of people inside two or three halls, I've managed not to throw up in any toilet, sink or bed, I've been seen in places I for the life of me wouldn't have been seen dead a year or two ago.

I've successfully evaded the homesickness that over 60% of students have suffered, I've had Fresher’s Flu, I've been seen wandering and running around in toga and boxers around 4 o’ clock in Southsea, I've chirpsed girls I didn't see the next day, and I know I'll attest to Tesco's Microwavable meals for the next year or so.

So, five weeks now have passed since I dropped my bags and banana boxes inside my room, and near every night something remarkable has happened. I’ve witnessed the weird, the funny and the emotional. The drink, the kebabs and the chunder. I’ve become a journalist, I’ve worked at a fast food restaurant, I’ve washed clothes, cooked meals, and most importantly, I’ve started to write a lot more.

It’s been a hell of a long wait to start, but from the get go, I’ve endured and enjoyed near every moment. I recently mentioned to a course mate that the structure of an atypical Portsmouth student’s conversation goes as follows, in three stages: Sex, alcohol, and Fresher’s Amnesia. She laughed a lot at my Venn chart analogy, but agreed on the spot.

It’s hilarious how structure of time is sort of lost as each day an intake of nicotine, coffee or drink causes the generic student to forget the smallest of things, like milk, bread, or their keys left in their flat door. Of all these things, I know I’ve done at least one. And names! So many people’s names to remember, I don’t think I would be able to tell you who from who if Facebook didn’t exist.