`Will we gel? Will I be in the playground on my own? Will the other kids stare?'

Just a few weeks ago, I became a mature student. I qualify here that "mature" means almost elderly - it has nothing to do with being wise or sensible. If wisdom or sense were mine, I'd be watching daytime television or coaxing the last bloom out of my summer flowers.

And I'd probably think about getting a dog. Long, leisurely walks, lunch with my cronies, experimental cookery and time to do nothing.

Instead, I'm barrelling up and down the road from Kildare to Dublin at ungodly hours, most of the time on autopilot, with millions of thoughts and questions racing through my head.

Don't be fooled. The thoughts and questions are not those of lofty academia - more like, did I unplug the iron, what's in the freezer and how in God's name am I going to come up with a minimum of 10,000 words for a dissertation? Such is my lot at the moment and the funny thing is, I think I like it.

I was a bit wobbly about it all in the first week or so at Dublin City University. My colleagues on the journalism course have the advantage of youth and all that it brings. Will we gel? Will I be in the playground on my own? Will the other kids point and stare? We did. I wasn't. So far, they haven't.

They're nice people. I'm glad to have the opportunity to give good press to their generation. We're all under pressure and it's all hands on deck. There's a definite esprit de corps prevailing and the group dynamic is working well.

The only thing is, they don't seem to get as tired as I do. I've gone to the pub with them once or twice and had a coffee - "I'm driving - mustn't indulge". Truth is, at the end of any college day, a small G&T would floor me. The days of party-on, a quick shower and up-and-at'em again would seem to be gone for me. The spirit is ever so willing but the flesh, regrettably, just won't go there any more.

Commuting is a big part of the weariness. A 38-mile trip can take 2 1/2 hours of inching along the motorway. Public transport doesn't get me there in time and it's unbelievably troublesome - for me, it involves bus, train, two more buses and standing all the way. I did try it a few times and was appalled to hear a woman almost whoop with delight at the availability of "decent standing room". She propped herself up against the wall in the rickety bit between carriages and slept standing up. Wherever she's going or whatever she's doing, I hope it's worth it. I couldn't do that day after day and I found it hard to watch her - I was terrified she'd miss her stop and I worried about her all day.

I've accepted that I have to get myself there under my own steam and am continuing to steal out of the house in the early hours lest I waken my cohabitants.

All told, the first few weeks have been incredibly busy. Apart from the academic issues of turning in assignments on time etc, the household has been busy working out a system which leaves everyone fed and watered on some sort of regular basis. Synchronising timetables and work schedules was interesting to begin with - you cook on Tuesdays and I'll do it Friday etc. We have finally given up and are now operating on the "eat when and where you can" principle. I also found myself rummaging through a bag of clothes that I'd previously put to one side for the thrift shop - I don't care about trendy any more, they're clean. At 6 a.m., that wins.

And so it will continue for the rest of this academic year. I still have very wobbly moments and suspect that they'll be an ongoing feature of the entire experience. By the end of it all, I will have commuted thousands of miles and pegged hundreds of pounds into the toll bridge coffers - the owners of which don't, incidentally, offer any discount to students. Meanies. I do think, however, that it will be worth it. Already the grey matter is less sluggish and seems to be limbering up somewhat. If only the flesh would follow.

I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers whatever way they come out of the thrift shop bag at 6 a.m.