Inever told my mum about the harsh realities of student life in the 1980s. She was so proud of me being the first person in our family to go to university.
Little did she know about my occasional hardships: staying warm under the duvet while revising for exams in that cold dilapidated house in Sheffield I called home for a year; scouring empty cupboards in the kitchen to find the last edible morsels; worrying that the bank manager might come calling to ask about my bank account dangerously in the red.
But I count myself as one of the lucky ones; indeed, in hindsight we were a lucky generation. As someone from a split family who had lived on my own before university, I received a full maintenance grant to cover my costs of living. It’s hard to believe it now, but at the time no-one paid any tuition fees.
During the holidays I secured a host of memorable jobs, from bin man to builder to petrol station attendant. My hard-earned extra cash got me through my degree – and PhD – and then MSc.
