It’s been 7 weeks of penance for 6 months of exciting wandering global magic but *finally* the horizon is glowing with the potential of freedom. And I can not bloody wait.
The reaction from most when you say you’re ’32 and temporarily living with your parents’ tends to relate to memories of blissful childhood nostalgia and/or minor jealousy regarding the lack of rent and detours to the local supermarket in the pouring rain to buy yet another lamb rogan josh for one.
Back in the magical land of parents; the fridge is rarely empty, the heatings usually on and there’s a contraption in the kitchen that is as rare to London rental properties as mould and damp are present – ‘the dishwasher’ No longer do you have to attend house meetings to discuss whos turn it is to pay the extra penny for the internet bill or create whatsapp groups full of passive aggressive comments about toilet roll and washing up liquid. If the shower pressure drops.. There’s normally someone around to whip out a tool and crank that stream back to a raging river that bruises you upon impact. Better than the tepid trickle that is the rental norm.
But my reality isn’t quite that rose-tinted because let’s be honest. I’m 32, broke and barely employed. Not nine. so how blissful is my current existence? Well…
Home cooked meals? No chance – trying to get across the brutal symptoms of what a creamy cheesey lasagne does to my insides (and has done for over a decade) is like the time i tried to find Kyobo book shop in Seoul. Plus the two hour commute, now I am employed, means I arrive home too late so any meal dwelling gets done alone in a kitchen on an uncomfortable chair because you can’t possibly eat on a sofa.
Because I am a guest I am also in the guestroom. My temporary status means i don’t qualify as a resident (meaning i am also not allowed to register my presence and vote on europe) Being a guest means that I have too much stuff, i’m in the way and when people are bored they can wander in, judge me on the fact that when I left the house at 650am i didn’t quite have time to eat, put make-up on, remember my jumper or indeed ‘make the bed’. Oh yeah and the guestroom doesn’t have any furniture. One can not live with side tables alone.
TV. BBC or Channel 4 of NetFlix. That’s where usually head when i’m knackered and my brian can’t cope with people. But back at home it’s ITV and everythings recorded anyhow so it can be paused and there’s about 7 remotes of which one is normally lost. Trying to configure the remotes requires 3 months of dedication and practice – BBC Iplayer requires far less. And as for watching it online? The internet plan and it’s strength means unless it’s 4am on a sunday it buffers every three minutes before giving up altogether.
It’s impossible to plan anything, ever. Because if you do it will all just go wrong. I have tried to do three things since i’ve been back. I did one and it happened to be the evening of a freak train accident where my Mum had to drive thirty miles to collect me from a train station because the trains just gave up. Never again. This means my nails are amazing, my clothes are ironed – what else is there to do?
As much as I winge, there are some highlights of living at home, it’s not *all bad*And if I finally manage to get the agent I am speaking to about a possible east london residence there are some things i will definitely miss.
There’s a liquor cabinet. And it’s full.
The nespresso machine and associated endless supply of pods because popping into the Piccadilly branch for a refill isn’t an option.
You can see the stars at night. Yup. No pollution.
I can leave the house wearing miffy pyjamas, flipflops, socks and a pink diet coke hoody whilst wrapped in a blanket and not give a shit because the only thing i might bump into is a sheep… not that i leave the house because there is nothing for about 3 miles…