It's the peril of all Edinburgh-dwellers: Melissa Geere lets us in on the secret of happy Festival hostessing.

Since moving to Edinburgh for university, I have noticed a curious phenomenon among my wider social group. Every August, when the festival comes to town, I suddenly become incredibly popular. Am I a more attractive person in the summertime? No, I own a flat in the city that becomes the centre of the cultural universe, and my freeloading friends want sofa space.

This year, I decided to embrace the extra popularity, and threw my home open to anyone who had the gall to ask. I had fifteen visitors who stayed for an average of seven nights, though the longest stuck around for thirty-two days. I was often seen leading hordes through Bristo Square, being mistaken by some for a tour guide. As hosting is a role most students inevitably have to play, I would like to share a few home truths gleaned from my experience.

Guests are such a responsibility. No stopping off anywhere on the way home in case they're crying outside your door in the rain, waiting for you to let them in. They get really panicky if you tell them they can make their train in half an hour, and then you get held up on the Royal Mile by clusters of raincoat-wearing tourists watching street performers- don't they know there's a Fringe on? As a host, you have a duty of care, but guests have a duty too. They have a duty not to cut their toenails on their host's living room carpet. Or to make a vodka watermelon and leave it rotting for two weeks on the kitchen counter, thus wasting an entire bottle of vodka and a watermelon.

I did everything I could for my guests. I improvised shot glasses out of cocktail stick containers and vitamin bottles (like a Bear Grylls of hostessing), and I even made up impressive legends about the history of Edinburgh, based on only a modicum of fact. You have to accept, however, that you can't please everyone. When I have a guest on one side asking if we can do shots and go to the Hive, and another tugging my sleeve, wanting to get up at 7am and go for a run round the Meadows, sacrifices have to be made...and if these sacrifices affect my longterm fitness, so be it.

You also have to understand the inconvenience that will be caused to your flatmates. I could only apologise when my flatmate came home for the weekend to find one of my guests asleep in her bed. We shouldn't then have rolled home at 5am, put on loud music and proceeded to cook and eat her frozen parsnips, mistaking them for oven chips.

Thankfully I found a way to soothe everyone's ragged nerves and keep the peace. If that month taught me anything, it's that nachos will patch over any tricky situation. With a carefully planned feeding schedule, I was able to keep guests, flatmates and self at a reasonable level of cooperation, and so we muddled through.

The last hanger-on finally departed at the beginning of September, and I was left with a flat littered with greasy nacho trays and empty bottles, as well as a carpet of flyers and ticket stubs. Plates had been smashed, the whiteboard in the hall was covered with obscenities, Mariokart had gone missing, and nothing was in its rightful cupboard.

I expected to feel relieved, yet there was an emptiness in my soul. There had always been readily scroungeable food, someone offering to buy me a drink, music and laughter and plans being made, friendships being forged over takeaways. I realised that what I missed was the feeling of being in the midst of so many peoples' good times,knowing you're creating enjoyment for others. That's the real fun of hostessing, and it really hits home when they've all gone back to their boring normal lives, yet still message each other on facebook with the jokes that they shared thanks to your hospitality. Whether you have guests who stay for a cup of tea or attempt to move in, it's the same feeling, and I would unhesitatingly recommend throwing open your doors, because at the end of it, you'll be the one who benefits the most.