It's a well known fact that these days universities pride themselves on getting the best calibre candidates. Those who have done very little for the last three years at undergraduate are unlikely to find themselves being ushered into Oxford or put first in line to attend a Harvard Grad School.

Luckily, I think I've managed to avoid being one of those people, possibly to the detriment of my education itself, but by engaging myself with causes, charities and jobs that I have really enjoyed doing. My latest panic and realisation was that in two weeks time I was going to have to present a french oral to my class, complete with colloquial phrases, stunning grammar and an interesting topic. Given that I was already handed out the topic of Les sans-abri, my own skills would have no bearing on the name of the topic. However, there was a way to make it more interesting, and that was to head to a francophone country and adopt colloquialisms.

Concordia is a workcamp organisation, one of those that basically lets you work hard, for no monetary return. Board and lodgings at the most basic level is welcomely provided. Unsure of what I had signed myself up for, having received written information in the sketchiest English possible and being prepared for 'children building sheds', I alighted the train at Liege Pallais and stood, blinking in the hot sun. I had been reassured that I would be met by a member of the workcamp, and as my phone had unfortunately died several hours ago, it was left to chance. Around 20 minutes later and red renault kangoo swerved round the corner, with half of the bonnet missing. If a car had organs, they would be completely visable to the pedestrians of Liege. It screeched to a halt painfully, and a man who introduced himself as Gabriel jumped out of the car, cigarette in one mouth and with dreadlocks down to his waste.

'Welcome to Liege' he said, or actions to that effect as he took my case silently and slung it in the car. Hoping that this man was Gabriel and that he would be taking me to a workcamp somewhere near the city centre I sat tight and smiled politely if he turned to look at me.

'You like?' he asked, pointing at the buildings.

'Mmhmmm' said I. And determined to improve my colloquialisms, 'beaucoup'.

'Ahhhh you speak french!!' And before I had a second to contemplate my error, he was off, chatting to me in a strong belgian dialect, asking me questions and pointing at things, cigarette hanging from mouth, out of the car window.

The car pulled up at a very square bungalow building, surrounded by a tall metal fence, and overgrown brambles and trees. Children ran about, dirty and muddy, hitting shuttlecocks at each other with their badminton rackets. Behind them stood a line of young people: belgian, german, Korean, Japanese and Ukranian. They struggled to find the word for hello, whilst I cheerily introduced myself in French and English. By the end of the week I would have learnt how to say Hello in Japanese and 'I would like to go to bed now so go away' in Korean. (For the language enthusiasts out there, phonetically and approximately this is: NaTchaLay GohCho)

We were briefed on our work, and my bags were thrown into the school house room. We would be bedding down on the stone floor of the schoolroom, presumably using the thick layers of dust as mattresses. The work was mundane, decontructing wooden huts that were scattered around the grounds of this ramshackle building and pulling out nails. As my french improved and the others got used to my hideous accent we began to communicate with each other, finding out what we were doing and why.

One Korean girl, Shujian, had decided to rebel against her countries university system, and had flown to Europe and uncharacteristically for a Korean, she had decided to go it alone. As she explained about the demands the university system put on Korean students (after finishing their school day at 7 in the evening, everybody, desperate not to fall behind, goes to the private classes, that can last until 11pm each night), I was filled with amazement that she had fought against the system in her own way. Everyone else there had stories to tell, and each fulfilled national stereotypes. I drank a lot of tea, the Ukranian boys boasted about their women and were quite sexist, and the Japanese girl owned a pair of knee-high socks.

The work was boring, I know more swear words in Ukranians than I do french colloquialisms, but I made some great friends, and learnt to chill out a bit more before my exams. Now, Go Cho because I need to study!