I never realised that living in Haringey in North London was a grim existence, although in retrospect I should have known better. The three restaurants closest to my family home were all fried-chicken shops. The double glazing couldn’t keep out the noise of double-decker buses. One morning I found a squashed mouse in my bed that I had murdered by rolling over in my sleep.

Going to the University of Cambridge opened my eyes to what a privileged life could be like. Students had “bedders” – cleaners who emptied your bins every morning and vacuumed your room twice a week. Every night meals were offered at a grand hall straight out of a Harry Potter movie, and where Stephen Hawking was in regular attendance. Launderettes and computer rooms were close by and free to use. Of course, plenty of students still complained.

My accommodation was consistently cheaper than that of my friends who had left for other major universities, but in my senior year I was granted a double room.

One was a small bedroom that overlooked a centuries-old college courtyard. The other was a large front room that was above the citycentre market.

I’m sure that if my old college ever chose to sell those dorm rooms, each one would go for hundreds of thousands of pounds. The view alone was priceless.

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