Your place or mine?

Student accommodation is a funny thing. They are the places where, for many of us, the reality of adult life strikes us for the first time. Where the realities of looking after yourself compete with the need to scramble enough marks to pass your course and the ultimate priority of simply having fun. They can also play host to unforgettable moments in our lives, including those which set you on the path to your future career. 

After moving to Dundee in September 2001 I had a memorable year in Seabraes Halls (Flat 21), making friends for life and memories I will never forget. But while Seabraes was a great introduction to university life, the residence that really sticks out in my mind from my four years in Dundee is one where I would spend my second year in the city. 

"The Palace"

I still remember collecting the keys to 48 Roseangle, a grand, Victorian-era house a stone’s throw from Magdalen Green. With a huge hallway, complete with crimson-painted floor and imposing stained glass window on the stairway, it had clearly been a grand property in its heyday. 

I soon learned that the house was known locally as “The Palace”. I’ve never known a student house to be bigger – with its large rooms, complete with high ceilings and cornices, it must cost a fortune to heat today. 

Moving in felt like being in The Goonies. There were dozens of cupboards to explore, an attic crammed with countless items left by previous tenants, and even a balcony overlooking the Tay Bridge. Stepping onto this required nerves of steel given that it had no railings at one end and the structural integrity of Angel Delight.

Our housewarming took place over what was known as the “stolen weekend”. Having enjoyed themselves too much in Seabraes, several of my flatmates had resits over the summer. And with that came an excuse to get together and establish ourselves in our new home with a small housewarming party.  

The sunshine that weekend was baking hot – far from ideal weather for bootcut jeans – but the perfect backdrop for a few bottles of Corona, which had only just arrived on these shores. All was well until I discovered the hard way that my new bedroom had a Yale lock on the door. Locksmiths have never been cheap.

But Roseangle would always be a very happy home from home. We were a popular bunch and our grand living room, juxtaposed by the tiny 14-inch television set that we clubbed together to buy, welcomed a constant parade of visitors. The house was alive at all times of day or night. As I’ve gotten older, my home is my sanctuary but at university you often had to escape our accommodation’s walls for some peace and quiet. Not that I minded back then.

While studying must have taken place at some point, much of our downtime was entirely carefree. If we weren’t at Mono, then our evenings would be spent playing Championship Manager or Playstation 2 until dawn. Vice City had just been released and hearing any of the multitude of 80s hits that formed the game’s soundtrack still catapults me back to that house. 

Indeed, music was a near constant, with the hall resonating to a soundtrack of Idlewild, Biffy Clyro, jungle, or disco – depending on which flatmate had left their door open. 

The only other sounds that competed with the near-constant thump of bass came from sound of the Caledonia Sleeper rolling off the Tay Bridge in the wee small hours, or the occasional car. Even in the days before SUVs, when the “new” Mini and Ford Focus ruled the roads, cars sounded deafening as they scrambled up and down the cobbled street outside.