This is an elongated version of an article I submitted to Ideas Tap for a columnist application. Sadly due to website issues (on their part) they didn’t accept the application, despite the fact I submitted it before the deadline. Which makes a hat-trick of rejections from applications with them. Oh well, it makes an alright blog.
When I was younger, the idea of someone living with their parents in their late twenties seemed strange to me. I officially moved out at 21, before a lot of my friends did. In fairness, it was to go to university (after a lot of my friends did), but I deliberately picked somewhere as far away as possible so I would hardly come home. This place was North Wales. Australia had been my first choice, but the small matter of $20,000 a year (even when the pound was strong against the dollar) meant I couldn’t afford it. I probably dodged a bullet there, as I think I decided on Canberra which is possibly one of the dullest cities on earth (although it’s one of the few places in Australia I haven’t been, but only because everyone told me this and they seemed correct). I came back very briefly at 24 to look for work, and then moved back to Wales. Then back home, then to Stoke to do an MA. Then home again, then travel, then home, then Australia, then home, and now I’m in London, struggling.
I currently live independently, which is something I’ve always enjoyed, but the cost of living in London on a low wage has me and several other twenty and thirtysomethings back on the tightrope between independence and the Hotel of Mum and Dad. It’s especially tough for a creative person as there are hardly any jobs out there, and the few there are want experience but are unwilling to offer you any/take a chance on you to get it in the first place. Where do these successful candidates get their experience from in the first place? How can people afford to intern for free for so long in LONDON? All I know is hard work + some intelligence + a degree + being polite and professional + working for free + moving to London has got me this; a minimum wage job, no spare money at the end of the month after bills, necessities, and (ironically) my career development loan repayments. On the very very rare occasion I treat myself to a pint it costs me £4, which would take me 45 minutes to earn.
Moving home of course would mean I’d be earning NO money and being back on the dole, but I could pay my parents half of this in rent and resort to selling my stuff (again) to cover the loan repayments, and this would give me some space in the box room that was made for me (formerly the dining room). I gave my sisters my old room as they used to share one, although for some bizarre reason they seem content to stay. Maybe because they saw what happened to me.
Home seems like an easy option, and it would be so much better if my parents lived in London. Or Australia. But they don’t, they live in Southampton, the land of offices, flats, more offices, bars, and more boring, dull, grey, gossiping, claustrophobic, germ-filled offices. Which drove me to move and go to university in the first place, and in a sad twist of fate I couldn’t even get temp jobs in these offices when I came home.
It’s easy to forget what living back at home is like, and here are some examples, from personal experience (although I’m sure a few may sound familiar);
- Hypocrisy/Favouritism – Listening to relaxing music through my headphones can be too loud, yet my little sister blaring out drum and bass with her door open (or my mum enjoying her newfound taste in terrible dance music) goes unnoticed. ‘Justice.’
- Annoying mannerisms – Every parent has them. An embarrassing grunt here, a pick of the nose or clip of the toenails there. My dad likes to pick at his dry skin whilst talking to you. My mum talks to herself.
- Hygiene and Cleanliness – My father could spend half an hour picking up crumbs from the carpet (a bit like a former friend of mine, who seemed to be obsessed with this). Or spotting a single crumb in the entire kitchen and moaning about it. Yet, when it comes to cooked food, my parents see nothing wrong with leaving the meal out (uncovered) for a couple of days when there’s leftovers. Including chicken and fish meals. Miraculously, they’ve never got food poisoning (or so they tell me).
- Rubbish TV – We’ve all been there, but parents seem stuck in a perpetual ‘crap evening TV’ routine. My dad has a more respectable taste in criminal dramas and such. My mum and little sister rarely miss an episode of X Factor or Strictly Come Dancing. This is what I imagine purgatory to be like. This is also the reason my dad and I haven’t ventured into the lounge for several years.
- Money – Parents are always out to save penny, and it’s understandable. Mine seem to think that anything with ‘value’ written on it automatically makes it the cheapest item. Advice on special offers, buy one get one frees, and just checking the price per ml/kg labels in the supermarket falls on deaf ears. I’m also banned from joining in on the weekly food shop. Hard-earned knowledge from 4 years of being a university student and a year and a half of being a backpacker wasted.
- Stupid rules – As a kid you learn certain sensible rules. Don’t run with scissors, don’t talk to strangers, don’t paint the dog. Three years ago my parents introduced the controversial ‘no flushing at night rule’ to save money. I calculated it costs approximately 2p a flush which I offered to pay, but the problem of ‘money’ was then replaced with ‘noise’. My parents cleverly chose to pick the bedroom next to the bathroom, and then put their bed right up against the wall separating the two. Nowadays for 8 hours a night the bathroom becomes a biological smorgasbord of disgust.
- Stuff – As a kid you acquire a lot of crap and your bedroom is always messy. For some reason, my parents practically hoard stuff. And my sisters. They also never get round to doing anything. A few years ago the attic was converted to contain most of this. There are dustbin bags full of teddies that could be sold or given to charity. There are old, pointless books, boxes of annuals that fetch 20p in a charity shop and stuff that probably came from there in the first place. Old clothes no-one wears anymore but won’t give away or throw out. Ancient computer hardware and software that are obsolete and also have no significant retro or rarity value. Admittedly I have a little bit of stuff, but this is useful stuff like cooking utensils and the remaining comics (a financial investment which is soon to be eBayed) that my dad didn’t throw out when he thought they were evil (weird religious phase) or my mum didn’t ruin by putting in the shed (we also have 3 sheds).
And yet the house is still full of random bollocks. In our kitchen are random 80s throwbacks that sit in dusty boxes on top of cupboards. The ‘Mince Master’ that has never been used, but is being kept as it just might be, on one sad lonely beef-preparing day. Old magazines hide in boxes while drawers remain full of useless titbits that could easily be replaced from a pound shop if they ever were truly needed. Ironically, my parents often moan they don’t have enough space or money. My constant recommendation of a car boot sale to my dad was consistently accepted, only when each Sunday came he couldn’t be bothered (but somehow managed to find a way to blame me). In the entire summer of 2011 we managed a single car boot sale, and about £20.
To be fair to my parents, we do live in a small house, and despite the fact I’ve never liked the house I know it’s all they can afford, and has kept me off the streets several times. However I can see them ending up as one of the old hoarders on ‘The Life of Grime’ one day.
- Getting old– Time is a crafty thief and one day you realise it has robbed you of the parents you once knew. I can remember my parents being in their enthusiastic 30s, throwing parties once a month and owning several dogs instead of making excuses about getting another. Now I notice the wrinkles and the grey hair (or in my dad’s case the lack of it), slowly morphing into two familiar strangers. It is a sad thing to see your parents grow old, witnessing them acquire new ailments, occasionally forgetting things, needing reading glasses for everything, or forgetting their reading glasses. And sometimes when I look in the mirror I notice it in myself. My first few wrinkles, receding hairline, grey hair, a tiredness and wisdom that wasn’t there before. Funnily enough, this will be the ‘youthful’ face my children will remember that will change into something similar to my parent’s in 20-30 year’s time. I partly disagree with trying to prolong the human life expectancy as it’s only really valid if you are able to properly live, and at least semi-independently. But who knows what the future holds. My parents bug me more than anyone else I know, but I love them and will miss them when they’re gone.
