Yesterday I journeyed Sydney-ward to help out in the mentoring programme and to check out my new place at uni housing.

It took me three attempts just to get on the train: I missed the first train because I slept through my alarm, I missed the second train because I realised halfway to the station that I hadn’t taken my meds. When I arrived at the station for the third train I got out of the car and realised that I had no shoes. After he finished laughing, Dad leant me his (way-too-big-for-me) sandals.

I arrived to the chaotic melee of new students, parents, aunts and other assorted hangers on. “I’ve witnessed so many arguments between these kids and their parents today”, my team leader whispered to me conspiratorially, “so many arguments about subject choices and that kind of thing”. She has the most wonderful Irish accent that washes over you as she speaks. “This would never fly in Ireland; no parents at university at all, you’re an adult at university. You can be mollycoddled all you like in high school but it ends once you get to uni. I was helping a lady earlier who was enrolling for her daughter’s boyfriend for heaven’s sake!” I wandered around the tables, helping out the first years fill in their forms and offering lollies for two hours and then headed home.

On the way home I went past my new place. It’s a typical Sydney terrace: it looks like it has had a room added on every decade since it was built. I couldn’t go inside but from outside it looks nice enough. I move in on either the fifteenth or eighteenth...