Lessons In Love

Despite being very unhappy, I survived my first term at university. I went home for the Christmas holidays in December 1990 and no-one, including me, thought I’d make it through a second term, never mind a three year degree. There were many persuasive reasons for my dropping out: I wasn't enjoying studying law, I was barely coping with having volunteers assist me to go to the loo and I didn't have many friends. But there was an even more compelling reason which ensured my return to academia - boys.

I had been to an all girl's school. Worse than that, I had been to an all girls convent school. The only men who crossed my path there were the caretaker and the whacky young music teacher who wore a tie with piano keys on it and who thought it was cool for us to call him Neil instead of Mr
Scott. There weren’t many possible love interests in my life back then: I had a crush on one of my brother's friends and I once had a dalliance with a bedridden boy in my hospital ward in 1985, but that was it. By the age of 18, I'd never been kissed.

I was convinced all that would change once I went to university. Since I’d be surrounded by boys and men, surely I'd meet someone? Anyone? I was so desperate that when any male showed even the slightest interest in me, I became obsessed.

I fancied my law tutor because he was young, fairly attractive and laughed at my jokes. My doctor was very understanding, so I decided that his medical qualifications would make him the perfect partner for 'someone like me'. There was a guy in criminal law who photocopied my notes when he missed lectures so I thought that maybe he was interested.

And then I really did fall in love. The man in question was called Mark - a volunteer helper for one of the other disabled students. He was young, lanky and ever so 'mysterious' because he read Catcher In The Rye and listened to The Stone Roses. Mark seemed to make anything possible. He'd even carry me upstairs to the student nightclub where the walls dripped with sweat as everyone would Sit Down to James.

I pretended to like arty films because he did, and so spent many a night in the company of David Lynch. I listened to his angst and his world view but I never told Mark how I felt about him. He was nevertheless the main reason why I didn't drop out after my first term.

I'm glad I returned to uni because by my second year, I was feeling like a proper student. I stole a traffic cone, I failed an exam and I had no money. I was happy. I was in love. I'd joined Amnesty. I was learning how to work with my helpers. I realised it was okay to hate my law course. I was having fun. But I was still living in halls of residence.

Living communally with another 200 young people is like a non-disabled version of residential care. Queuing up in large school-like dining rooms for stodgy meals and enduring fire alarms going off in the middle of the night because some drunk student fancied a bit of late night toast which burned. Worst of all was coping with this for the entire duration of my degree.

I could cope for one year maybe, but three? I wanted to be in student digs with my mates but no one wanted to live with me plus two helpers. And anyway, there was a distinct lack of accessible bungalows on the accommodation notice board.

I escaped from halls as often as I could; most memorably on a sponsored hitch hike to Paris with the lovely Mark and my helper who luckily was French. I sat at the side of the road in my wheelchair and flashed a cardboard sign with ‘M1’ on it at the passing traffic - for three, seemingly endless hours.

At last a car pulled up and the driver was so amused at our situation that he took us all the way from Nottingham to Dover. From there, we crossed the Channel and then tried to make our way to Paris but no one would pick us up. We spent 24 hours in Calais and then Mark's parents rescued us with money, food, a bed for the night and a ride home. We still made over £120 in sponsorship and as a poor student, I decided that charity should begin at home.

Thanks to Mark, I more than survived my three years at university. I never did tell him that I loved him. I'm glad because it turns out he loved someone else instead - my helper. The French one. In 1993, they left Nottingham University with each other and I left with a 2:1 in law, a first in life and a third in love.

• Read part one of Liz's university experiences here: University Challenge