I can't recall exactly when I reached the age at which I was no longer content to sleep the occasional night on a friend's floor, but I suspect it was in my 30s. And such carpet-nights probably followed an evening that included music, alcohol and cannabis, the last of which I stopped smoking in my 30s when the decent giggly white middle-class resin became unavailable and the market was flooded with horrid gangsta skunk.
Along with sleeping on other people's floors of course many of them slept on mine - floors in a variety of cheap rented flats and houses called generically in those days 'student'. It meant they didn't have central heating, frequently didn't have wiring installed in the past 40 years, were in areas shared with ladies of negotiable virtue or just smelt too bad for normal people. In one house, the immersion heater only went on once a week to give three baths. Otherwise we used the kettle. In hindsight I'm not sure it made economic sense.
The reward of course was the experience. I recall waking on the first Sunday morning in a new gloomy basement room off Gloucester Road, to emerge in bright sun a stone's throw from Regent's Park and Baker Street, with shops and cafes already doing a thriving trade. In contrast to deepest Suffolk it was soo Goddam metropolitan it was worth the silverfish.
It wasn't universal. I can still divide my VIth form into those like me and those who would go from the ordered comforts of their parents' homes to the ordered comfort of a married home with nothing in between. Nor is it universal still; if my nephew is anything to go by, 'student' accommodation now requires double glazing, an ambient temperature of a constant 20deg, a current gas safety certificate, a resident concierge and a parking place.
But for what I got from it, I wouldn't have swapped all my bad housing, the 'cold water walk ups' in American terms, for all the green teas we so assiduously tasted.