We live and learn

Even this won't tempt me now.

So I was really looking forward to coming home, back to the friends who had always been there for me, even if we didn't have that much in common any more. I knew I could rely on them for a drink down the pub. Maybe a Christmas party. Maybe a New Year's Eve one if I was really lucky.

But this feeling came home with me somewhat.

In the pub on the first night I hate to admit it, but I was bored. The guys were all drinking, having fun, arguing about different Internet browsers... yes, standard. And I was sat in the corner thinking, gosh, maybe this would be funnier if I was drunk.

And I couldn't believe it. I had got to the point, when to even hold a conversation with the lads as a group when they'd been drinking: I felt the compulsion to drink. I'd spent years watching them get drunk and stoned in fields, gladly refusing the proffered substances, stone-cold sober and still had fun. Now it wasn't enough. It seemed I'd gone from knowing for sure that these were the guys I could always rely on to listen to me if I needed to moan about the fact I felt the need to drink among my university friends, to being the ones I needed to drink with in order to have fun.

I even skipped a New Year's Eve party to visit relatives and hang out with the oldies, terrified of discovering myself to be once again bored in their company.

But when it came to a standard, hang out, listen to music, chat kind of party, I let one of them persuade me into going. To make sure I wasn't bored, I surmised, I'd get plastered. Surely that's an excellent idea, right? So I got the vodka and I packed my things and shipped out to my friend's farm armed with positive thinking and a determination to have fun.

I'll say one thing: the party certainly wasn't boring.

But I was drunk. Far too drunk for my own good as it turns out. I had fun, lots of fun, right up until the moment when I really didn't. When you end up sitting outside, freezing yourself on some steps and clutching a glass of ice cold water to sober yourself up, kind of coerced by circumstance into talking to someone who may or may be drunk enough to try it on and not remember, you know the night hasn't gone quite right.

That's not to say I wholly regret going. There were some splendid moments. An old acquaintance, matured - eventually – by his experiences, turned back into a friend. I learnt a lot about people by the way they treat their drunk friends. Having always previously been on the other side of the equation, I realised just how invaluable it is to have someone with friendly eye out for you. And how saddening it is when that friendly eye is more appreciative than it should be. I was also proud of myself for a few small things. I didn't throw up: always a plus in someone else's house, especially as one of the guys lost an eyebrow at New Year's for doing it. I made myself drink plenty of water and I knew when to stop drinking – ish. It would probably have been better to stop before I hit the halfway line on the bottle. Consequently, I had little of a hangover per se – I was just absolutely shattered, physically, and emotionally once the memories came flooding back.

But we live and learn. I'm not drinking that much again this term. I may well donate my leftover vodka to some equally undeserving wretch who can then make the same mistakes I did – and learn similar lessons. Determined still to keep positive, I'm a firm believer in the idea that we have to take the bad to keep the good.

It wasn't my proudest moment. But I'm back to York soon, and at least now I'll know not to try and be somebody I'm not; not to go crazy just for the sake of it. But most of all, that there's nothing to be afraid of in staying in. It's not what you do, it's how you do it.

And I intend to do it right next time.

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