It seemed relevant - the beat was just about keeping time with his mind, which was erratically thinking of several things. The most salient part was building an elaborate and much over-romanticised picture of him stepping off the train. His head was thrown back, his eyes opening to the new challenges. The song was called Missing. It was about him moving onto to a new part of his life, missing the old, yet unable to resist the perpetual pull of the future. The train passed a large out-of-town superstore - Andrew remembered the landmark from the interview last year; he was close now. The song was fading, the chorus repeating. He had forgotten to listen to most of Missing, the constant presence of the in-the-ear headphones had blended the music into a background thought in his mind. He started fumbling for the Walkman, about to rewind, when he realised he was falling into the trap. Pop songs stuck in his head as reminders of events in his life. This time Andrew was trying to pre-empt this - he had deliberately chosen 'Missing'. The song was in fact nothing to do with starting university. It had very little in common with his situation. Were those lyrics even correct? Andrew rewound to replay the track and find out, but was interrupted by an announcement that they were about to arrive at his station.

Andrew stepped of the train and walked briskly down into the main concourse. There he placed his obese rucksack on the ground by his side. He spun around smoothly through 720 degrees, taking in his surroundings and collecting his thoughts. For the fourth time that morning he then checked the piece of paper which told him the name of his college. Yes, still Rievaulx College, he mused. Hoisting the bag onto his shoulders he then headed over to the taxi rank, taking the car at the front of the queue.

‘Which college?’ questioned the cab driver in a cocky way.

‘Rievaulx please. Is it that obvious?’ Andrew was using his light-hearted voice, reserved for taxi-drivers and people that required an effort to not condescend to.

‘Everyone’s starting today. Are you new?’

Andrew affirmed.

‘We don’t get many first years, most of them get lifts from parents. I guess you’re the independent type.’

Andrew smiled.

‘Of course, it’s easy when you’re young. You have a three-year holiday ahead of you now. Three years of student discounts.’ The driver negotiated a complicated junction, then continued, ‘You’ll never have any money of course - I always get that when I’m bringing you lot back from nightclubs. But you’ll feel like you have everything.’ A few minutes later, the taxi driver stopped and pressed a couple of buttons on his meter. ‘That’ll be three pounds ninety pence, please.’

‘And my student discount?’ mocked Andrew - he gave up holding back the condescension, the taxi driver wouldn’t even notice it in his voice.

‘Sorry mate. Doesn’t apply on journeys to or from the station. The college entrance is over there’, the cab driver said pointing towards a building, ‘And don’t forget your bag.’

Registration was a simple matter, and within a few minutes Andrew found himself sitting on a bed in a small functional cell. The smell was overpoweringly institutional - a mixture which Andrew couldn’t totally define. It was paint and musty curtains, but not home. The room somehow smelt of transience. It did not bother Andrew, he had stayed in dozens of similar places before; he knew his mind would soon fade the smell, and a few furnishings would grow the room into home.

It took much effort to overcome the urge to unpack everything immediately. Andrew knew his priorities. He carefully removed the active speaker system from the side pockets of his rucksack, connected it up to his Walkman, chose a tape and pressed play. He then unpacked some coffee and sugar sachets, which he took through to the kitchen, making certain to leave his door half-open. By the time the kettle had boiled, Pulp were half way through ‘Misshapes’, which broadcast from his room at a moderately loud volume. It was also at this point that Andrew met a girl, who he later discovered was called Catherine.

‘Hi ya’, a voice came from behind him. People actually had voices like characters in Victoria Wood sketches! Andrew was glad he had his back to her and that she couldn’t see his irrepressible grin.

‘Would you like some coffee? I’m sorry I don’t have any tea’, said Andrew without turning around.

‘Oooohh yes please. Two sugars. Actually, Mum’s left me with some Hob-Nobs. I’ll get them from my room’, replied the voice, whose owner had already disappeared by the time Andrew turned around.

A few minutes later the girl returned. Andrew could see her now, he was seated at the chipped Formica table. She was improbably blonde; slight; with a round friendly face, and brown eyebrows.

‘Would you like one’, she said, offering the biscuits. Andrew politely took half a broken chocolate digestive.

‘I’ve stolen some milk from the fridge for your coffee - I take my coffee black, like my men.’ One of Andrew’s favourite conversational openers.

The girl smiled nervously, sniffing by way of a response, then, ‘I like mine white - my coffee I mean. It tastes too strong black. And the milk wasn’t stolen. Well it was, but it isn’t now. The milk’s mine.’ The girl was still looking a bit uneasy.

‘That was a joke, by the way.’ The girl laughed, visibly grateful as Andrew said this. ‘I sleep with white men too.’ Andrew paused, then laughed. The girl laughed too, perceiving a joke this time. The ice had been fractured and would soon break.

Before long the coffee cups multiplied. Catherine was soon joined by several other Catherine's and a few Matt's. Pulp turned into Oasis, who turned into The Cranberries who turned into Crowded House. The chat was still stilted, but becoming less so as everyone gained familiarity by categorising the others. Of course, everyone was amazed by everything everyone else had done however banal it might have been. At 7:30pm they decided to go to the college bar. By 8:30pm everyone was collectively ready and together they walked fifty yards across the courtyard to the bar.

As Andrew walked in, he was almost overcome by the field of fresh faces bobbing around in the small bar. They were all anonymous faces - apart from the seven or eight he had arrived with, he recognised none of them. Yet, these unknown faces all had a familiar look. Andrew felt quite surprisingly comfortable, the mass of random heads did not bother, upset or even perturb him. Even as Andrew struggled to the bar he was not irritated, the claustrophobic squeeze of bodies only slightly disconcerted him. A simple shift of perspective was changing the living obstacle course hampering Andrew’s progress. The queue was not an obstacle. It was a group of people - people with a common aim of making friends. The queue was part of the experience.

Andrew was reminding himself of yesterday’s thoughts as he queued up for his NUS card. The queue wound along a packed corridor, which did feel claustrophobic. The line, which must have had at least two hundred people in it, was squashed into an underground corridor. Compounded onto the people queuing were lots more browsing through posters which an entrepreneur had decided would sell well in such an environment. Andrew wished he had eaten more and drunk less yesterday.

‘They should have done this in a larger college.’

The voice came from a girl who looked ten times better than Andrew felt. She was talking, but not looking at him. This was the beauty of starting university for Andrew - it was all so amiable. Ignoring her, or answering in such a way as to avoid conversation would have been rude.

‘I think it’s part of the experience. This is good for you’, Andrew replied after a pause, not to think of a good response, more because he felt it was appropriate. He wished he had paused to think as well, his answer sounded stupid.

‘Good for me? Like Guinness?’

The girl impatiently kicked her heel against the wall, still not facing Andrew, but facing the opposite wall. Andrew followed her vacant gaze to a clock. The chunky large hand on the clock jerked forward a notch, becoming totally vertical. 11 o’clock. Andrew turned his face from the clock face to the face that now turned to his. His eyes reflected into two surprisingly submissive coffee-bean eyes. The look held for seconds until it was broken by the distraction of their lips smiling.

‘Black or white?’ Andrew heard himself saying.

‘Black. Always black,’ came the reply, ‘You get so much more for your money.’ But she giggled. This was real life. An inward smile pervaded Andrew’s complexion as he gestured down the sloping corridor away from the queue.

They were in a self-service snack bar, sitting opposite each other at a small square table. The table was next to a large picture window, over-looking a small terrace leading through the rain to the large dreary lake beyond. They both had identical coffees and doughnuts. They had not yet spoken - the corridor had been too full, the snack bar queue-less.

‘I suppose this is a bit naughty - we should have stayed to get our NUS cards’, the girl launched the conversation.

‘Well, I’m certain that it will all still be there when we get back. Do you think people row on the lake? I haven’t seen any boats.’

The girl bent her head and laughed silently. ‘In the prospectus there were people rowing. I looked yesterday, the photograph showed a young couple smiling, eating a tub of ice-cream.’

‘I think that couple must visit all of the universities, I’m certain I saw them rowing around photos in three other prospectuses as well. So where exactly in Scotland do you come from?’

Andrew had been trying to pick out the accent. Although he was quite good at identifying regional dialects, this one was particular hard as the girl was very well spoken, covering up her natural tones. The combination made her voice sound a bit like American’s sound when they are attempting an English accent in period films.

‘Stornoway on Lewis.’

‘Oh’, Andrew floundered. Was that mainland Scotland? Was it in the North-West or near Dumfries. ‘Wow, that must be really beautiful. My parents live in the Home Counties. It’s a very genial area. Everything is convenient and pleasant.’ There was only slight cynicism in his voice. The girl did not pick up on it.

‘You are so lucky. I’ve always wanted to live near a big city. Nothing ever happens on Lewis, and it takes .....’ The girl carried on talking.

Andrew listened to her voice but not the words. The voice was screaming ‘Sex! Sex! Sex!’ to him. Readjusting his aural focus, the words seemed so incongruent, almost naive in comparison. The flow of words slowed, and Andrew realised he was staring. Not being able to respond to the girl’s line of conversation, Andrew plumped for a sly change of direction.

‘Do you paint? There must be so much heavenly scenery near there. Unlike here’, Andrew gestured out of the window hoping the girl would think that he had been drifting out of the window rather than staring at her.

‘Not much. That’s my sister, she’s entered a few local competitions - once she went to London to have one - Is that a fire alarm?’ A painful siren interrupted the conversation. Canteen staff hurriedly closed hatches, whilst others directed people towards exits. Andrew and the Scottish girl simultaneously finished their coffees and followed the mass of people towards the door.

After five minutes sheltering under a canopy, they were allowed back in. The conversation had paddled in idle chit-chat, jokes about fires and jokes about the rain while they had stood outside. They rushed back in through the small side-door to the snack bar and walked to the corridor for collecting NUS cards. As they turned the corner, they found the queue, which now only had about fifteen people in it. At the other end of the corridor they could see the main bulk of the queue hurrying in through fire exits to rejoin the line of people. Andrew turned to the girl with a smug smile.

Their remaining time in the queue was swift. The girl got her card, then turned to face Andrew with a warm look. ‘I’ve got to rush now, I have to pick up some things from my department’, she then started to walk away. Over her shoulder she called in an overdone seductress voice, ‘I’ll see you soon, City-Boy!’

Andrew tried to think up a witty response, but by the time he had thought of something her flouncing hips and swaying arms were rapidly disappearing into the crowd.

The rest of the day passed unremarkably. Andrew hoped to once again bump into the girl from Lewis, but was disappointed. The following day was taken up with further registration procedures - filling out Medical forms, collecting book lists, meeting people. It was becoming a way of life. In the evening Andrew had arranged to meet Chris, a second year whom he had known from school. Andrew and Chris had never been particularly good mates, but Chris had been very keen to introduce Andrew to the highlights of student life. This introduction and subsequent alcoholic excesses brought Andrew to the Porters' lodge at 11:30pm, slightly unsteady. There were a few people hanging around talking - the bar had just closed. Andrew recognised Paul - or was it Steve? Steve, he thought. He had met the guy earlier on in the day and they had chatted briefly whilst checking their mail. Steve had seemed OK. A nice guy, maybe a bit too keen though. Andrew now realised he had been spotted and that Steve was walking towards him.

‘Oh! Hi there Steve. Had a good evening?’

‘Brilliant actually, Andrew. And it’s Paul, not Steve.’

If Andrew had been sober, his heart would have skipped a beat, as it happened the relaxing alcohol caused it not to bother. He had just spotted the Scottish girl. She spotted him too and walked over in his direction. Paul turned to her and muttered something and then turned to Andrew. ‘This is Heather.’ The girl smiled.

Andrew replied ‘I’m Andrew’, and then for no reason other than he was a bit drunk, he kissed Heather on both cheeks in a continental fashion. Paul was obviously unaware of the looks conversing between Heather and Andrew.

‘Hey Andrew! Come with us. Paul has just suggested we go back to his room. He has some beers stashed away.’ Heather turned to Paul for approval. Andrew couldn’t tell if she caught the fleeting grimace on Paul’s face as she said this.

‘That sounds a fabulous idea, Paul. With three of us it will almost be a party!’ Andrew and Heather then moved closer to Paul, using some clever body language to force him into agreeing.

The room behind the door that proclaimed, ‘D274’, was soulless. Clothes, tins of tuna, books, a television, a large holdall and various other ‘Generation Game’ rejects were disjointedly parked across the floor. The mess was not complete though - it failed to fill the room. Large patches of carpet spotted with pieces of fluff abounded giving the living space a disparate feel to it.

Two bums bounced onto the bed in tandem. Paul stood in the corner fiddling with a hi-fi - a separates system marked with greasy fingerprints, scratches and Tipp-Ex marks. Dance music started pulsating from the speakers at a volume too quiet to make Andrew’s testicles vibrate, but loud enough to make talking inconvenient. Paul said something inaudible as he passed cans of Heineken to Andrew then Heather. Heather was sitting closer to Paul (who had sat down opposite the bed on a university plastic chair). She replied to Paul starting a conversation that Andrew could not follow. Andrew tried lip-reading but soon realised that this was something that required teaching and could not just be picked up simply. After a few minutes of failing to make inroads into the chat, Andrew stood up, mouthing the word ‘Toilet’ as Paul turned to him. Heather didn’t even turn around.

The tightness in Andrew’s bladder subsided as he stood in the cubicle relieving himself. He decided that he would go back to his room now - obviously Heather was misguidedly interested in Paul. He buttoned his fly and pulled the chain to flush the toilet. He swivelled on his heels and pulled aside the lock. As he opened the door he was aware of a figure standing directly outside. Heather pushed him firmly back into the cubicle. His buttocks bounced into the sink on the side wall, lodging between there and the door. Heather was now inside the cubicle. She pulled hard on the waistband of his jeans, popping open the top two buttons. Next she brushed the palm of her left hand across Andrew’s cheek, over his ear into hair. The hand pulled Andrew’s head at a slight angle forward into Heather’s neck. He kissed her neck, searching upwards for her lips. Another hand had slipped around the inside of his jeans and was slowly tightening on one of his buttocks. Her lips found his and their tongues wrapped around each other in their newly created shared space. The hand on his buttock tightened, almost painfully so. Then let go. Heather was turning away her lips had left his. She managed to open the cubicle door just far enough to get out and disappeared. Andrew felt that the whole world had paused for thirty seconds.

It had happened so quickly that Andrew’s mind was not keeping up. After another thirty seconds, he regained a grip on the situation and rebuttoned his trousers. He almost ran along the corridor back to Paul’s room. The music had stopped. Paul was kneeling in front of his hi-fi pressing buttons. He turned around seeing Andrew.

‘Oh, I thought you’d all deserted me.’ Paul started speaking to Andrew, but then continued to his hi-fi, ‘Heather’s just left. She had a really bad migraine and was not feeling at all well. Actually, you’re looking a bit pale and sweaty,’ Paul had turned back in Andrew’s direction. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I think I drank too much tonight’, Andrew replied with his hand over his mouth. ‘I’ll see you soon - I’m off to bed now.’

Without waiting for a reply Andrew hastily left. He sped along the corridor, through repetitively empty kitchens, along identical empty corridors. Where had she gone? After several fire doors had swung closed behind him, Andrew found himself back in his own block. Feeling rather defeated he decided today was over. He opened his door, entered his room, and spun around a couple of times. He then closed and locked the door.