I didn’t plan for this, no one ever does, right? But I keep on coming back, hence the rather apt name for the generation of twenty-somethings that keep on finding their way back home. Cue time of crisis, lack of money, lack of life-plan or lack of ability to make your own cup of tea. Some of you may be able to relate and some of you may toast to your victory of escaping the family home in north Devon, but it is now a fact of life that more and more young people are still living at home in their, dare I say it, mid-twenties. And I am one of them.
When I first set off into the big wide world at the age of 18, I thought I was the queen of all things independent. At the departure gate of Heathrow I refused to wave my mother goodbye: the green scarf she had bought me two hours prior was all she was going to get as it swept over my left shoulder and teased her a farewell. I was off to pastures new. I was out of there. I was a grown-up. I had a bloody backpack for goodness sake. Seven years later, two degrees and far less money than I had when I was 18-years-old and I am still lodging in my parent’s attic: having already binned the green scarf.
There are definitely some ups of rooming with your parents; there is no freaky-man named Gregg who could have quite possibly installed tiny little cameras in your bedroom to film you naked
Absolutely cracking success. The most I have managed in my seven years of adult life is a move from the second floor up to the rafters; this being my parents polite way of removing me from their direct line of sight.
There are definitely some ups of rooming with your parents; obviously there is no freaky-man named Gregg who could have quite possibly installed tiny little cameras in your bedroom to film you naked without your knowledge, and there is no one to measure your consumption of toothpaste in a week – both of which were real concerns throughout my days at Leeds University. But when you remember the dream-like memories of abodes without parental figures, being able to sprawl yourself out on the sofa and having a cheeky cocktail hour in the middle of the day, the sense of suffocation starts to filter back through the rooftops and you realise just how bad your addiction has got.
Scouting around on the internet for fellow boomeranger’s – in a desperate search of qualification – I came across a post which left me feeling far more suffocated than usual, “Twenty-five should be the absolute limit.” I have precisely three months and two days to go until I turn into the hunchback of no return. It’s time to go cold turkey.