I take study seriously. But there are alternative visions of the world that lighten the burden, showing us things that satisfy parts of ourselves we know about but which adults do not normally acknowledge. In addition, I am enrolled in an arts degree, which mean that such objects are not difficult to find and admire.

For example, first year Italian language classes, conducted by Nerida Newbigin, sometimes serve up surprisingly enlightened objects of scrutiny. I shall never forget what the teacher does as we stand, bemused and curious like a flock of hungry flamingoes, inside the Nicholson Museum, a tiny enclave of silence filled with classical 'figure' that is buried near a portal of the Quadrangle. She amorously and self-consciously caresses Poupart's ligament on an antique male-figure statue during a perambulatory class. Her hand lingers on that section of the lower torso where the sculptor's tool had rendered the crural arch in high definition.

Nerida is not only an able tutor but also an enlightened individual. She tells us about condoms and talks intelligently about sex and other 'difficult' topics. As students, we are aware that much is available to explore at uni.

Part of being an undergrad is being acquainted with the library. Before personal computers revolutionaise the retreival and storage of information, card catalogues are consulted. There are also large volumes of reference books that provide details of dissertations and other material. The Internet will totally obliterate the need for such tools.

But one of my many pleasures at Sydney Uni is having access to Fisher Library's compendious stacks. In the dusty, unhealthy atmosphere of floor nine, I browse at random, picking out what seems interesting. Curious discoveries here feed a tremendous hunger for learning.

At first I live at St Paul's College on the university grounds, but move to Glebe in year two. Why leave the college? I wear a blue glass bead on a string around my neck and go to parties with other fine arts students. And Paul's 'fresher' (first-year student) initiation is highly distasteful. The main event of the year starts with an 'auction' of freshers in the dining hall. Second- and third-year (boys? men?) bid highest if they think the object of their attentions will be slow returning from the wilds (somewhere in NSW) on the day of banishment.

I manage to hide several notes (one rolled tightly is held by my toes as I walk into the shower, two others are hidden in cavities made in my clothing) despite being required to shower while my clothes are searched for such contraband. Encumbered by various articles (a lamp, books) taken from our rooms, we are bundled blindfold into a car and driven, for seemingly hours, into the vastness of the state. When we stop a vodka-based mix is forced on us. It is freezing. My fellow fresher and I scrounge enough sticks to make a fire in the dark and try to sleep. It is so cold that I wake up at one stage with my shoe half burned off.

In the morning, we strike off down the mountain on which we had passed the night and get a lift with a park ranger, who takes us most of the way into Dungog. We eat pies at the pub and use the rest of the smuggled money to catch the train back to Central.

But there is more unpleasantness at Paul's. Food fights rank equal with 'formals' (when girls are invitied to drink beer). The morning after one of these in the dining hall is enough to turn your stomach. Mixed with spilt beer on the floor is food. The stench persists, and is a permanent characteristic of the dining hall.

Drink is a common passtime and I hate it. One another occasion, the entire contents of my room is transported to the lawn in the quadrangle of the college, including the carpet. This seems to be revenge for not 'fitting in'. The close atmosphere of the college resembles a school boarding house. I've had enough of that.

Living in Glebe I am able to take my time and use it to make lino cuts, printing them on good-quality paper. Just before I make this Web site, looking through personal effects of my great aunt, Madge, I find a print I make of Sylvester, a wild thing who roams the traps on Franklin Street, where I live. It's just behind Grace Brothers, now defunct and replaced by a huge, multistorey shopping complex complete with a massive parking garage. In my days, there is an open parking area where I learn how to ride a motorbike.

Sylvester comes at his own pleasure, eats, sleeps, and gives me fleas.

Up the road is the Cornstalk Bookshop. Further up is Gleebooks, a space the same owners now use to sell childrens' books and second-hand books. They also nowadays sell off excess stock there. In my time as a resident, Gleebooks is full of esoteric stuff available in few other places. Postmodernism was beginning to spread universally in the academy. I will never really understand it except in relative terms. Some purples and greens and browns, it seems, are postmodern. Apparently an interest in shopping malls, celebrities and the politics of footballers, is postmodern.

Another favourite haunt is Gould's Bookshop, situated on George Street in the centre of the entertainment district popular with young suburbanites. I cycle down there regularly, picking my way through unusual comics, Henry Millers, and assorted genii from the west coast of the U.S. Bukowski is a favourite of mine.

Also popular on campus is concern for the environment. Flannery is just the most recent exponent of a long line of enviro-gurus. They do not convince me as an undergrad, and they will not do so later, in my middle majority.

People I meet at Uni such as Tony (will become a creative-writing lecturer), Barbara (a photographer), Gloria (a teacher in Italy) remain friends even at the time this Web site is being developed. "It was twenty years ago today," goes the song. More, in fact.