I am old before my time. I have decided I make a mockery of being 19. According to magazines and TV shows I should be out on the town every night of the week, getting ridiculously drunk, kissing strangers and occasionally being sick in a bus stop. But it’s just not me. I would much rather be snug on the sofa with a good book and a latte than falling over in the high street while my friends abuse a taxi driver – and unfortunately I am talking from experience.

The clubbing lifestyle, and the people that participate in it, amaze me. It takes every ounce of willpower to drag myself out of bed at 8am when my alarm starts barking incessantly, and that’s with going to bed at 11pm with a Peter James novel to keep me company. How on earth do people manage the same, turning up (relatively) bright eyed and bushy tailed to a 10am lecture after just five hours sleep. The cries of “I think I’m still drunk” and “I haven’t been to sleep yet” are becoming a regular morning occurrence, and something that never fails to amuse me. Its this idea that I’m supposed to be jealous of these people, that they’re the ones having an amazing time that never fails to make me laugh. Hangovers and vomit stained shoes are not something I long for, funnily enough.

My nights in are not simply full of reality TV shows and dawdling mindlessly on Facebook, however. I have become a pretty good cook, if I do say so myself. I read more books than I have room for, and I have become addicted to knitting. I am also in the process of finishing a quilt. Hardly rock ‘n’ roll, I’m aware, but nonetheless there is something incredibly satisfying about finishing a scarf and then wearing it out the next day. Plus, what could possibly be better for a student budget than making your own?

There is no doubt I have inherited this vaguely reclusive behaviour from my Mum. When she comes to stay with me we can both immerse ourselves in our knitting for hours, and not say a word. Discussing upcoming projects and the technicalities of a cable knit over a glass of rose have become a regular occurrence, and as mad as it may sound to die hard clubbers, I look forward to it ridiculous amounts. Unfortunately, my aunts and even their cousins are the same. They even have knitting parties. I had no chance.

As mad as it may seem, a lot of my friends are exactly the same as me. I know it must come as a shock that I have friends at all. After moving to Southampton for university, one of my best friends who is studying at Nottingham Trent came to stay with me. While everyone else was giving me abuse for not going out, it was amazing to see that she too would rather stay in and drink tea and watch Frozen Planet. My obsession with David Attenborough’s voice, however, is another matter entirely. The one night we did attempt to go out, we sat in a local bar offering £1 drinks and after doing a few obligatory shots we secured a table near the side of the room. Sitting there watching the most random looking bunch of people gyrate in quite a violent manner to “I’m sexy and I know it” was enough to make me run for the last bus home, never wanting to venture out of my lovely little bubble again.

Another shock for you all is that, even though I sound like I have the social schedule of a 74 year old, I do in fact have a boyfriend. The fact that I found someone who would also rather snuggle up on the sofa with a duvet and a table full of snacks than go gallivanting around the city still amazes me. This may have something to do with the fact that he is 26 years old, and lived out the typical laddish lifestyle to a tee after turning 18. Some of the stories are, quite frankly, grim. Whenever we do decide to venture into the outside world, it is usually together. We have an innate ability to be able to communicate a full escape plan from a packed club with one flick of the eye, and usually go home and throw ourselves in bed sighing: “What on earth did we do that for!?”

Sometimes I do long for the life of a wild child. Getting all dressed up, wearing shorts on a night out even though it’s the middle of November. Just looking at them makes me shiver, drinking ridiculous amounts of some vile alcoholic beverage and waking up on someone else’s bedroom floor not quite remembering how I got there all sounds so frivolous and fun that it does almost appeal. I just don’t think I will ever manage it. I am constantly thinking that it’s too cold to go out without my leather jacket, I hate the taste of most alcohol, hangovers are like hell on earth and how is everyone going to get home. I feel like the designated driver, even though I can’t drive.

I don’t think the appeal of a giant mug of tea, an amazingly gripping, dark crime novel or the beautiful new Rowan wool collection will ever waiver. However much I try time and again to adapt to the reckless lifestyle of the stereotypical student, I think I will always be drawn to the lighter things in life. You are much more likely to find me in the wool section of John Lewis than propping up the bar at Oceana. I am currently trying to find a knitting group, and I am seriously considering a cupcake decorating class I spotted at a tiny cake shop near my flat. I feel like a Nan at 19, and I don’t think I would have it any other way.