Living with the parentals
When I tell people, as I often do these days, that I’m living with my parents they cock their head to one side, roll their eyeballs and breath in through their teeth. Probably quite a similar reaction to the one my parents get when they tell their friends that I’ve moved back home. However, and I’m aware that it’s only been 6 days, I would like to counteract this seemingly universal sympathy vote and tell people that it really isn’t that bad. In fact, more than that, it’s pretty darn good, and I’m having a great time. So much so that I think my parents are quite concerned we’ll never leave.
Where my old flat in the winter was absolutely freezing my parents house is beautifully warm.
Where that flat was up 3 flights of stairs I only have to ascend a steep but short driveway to reach the front door of my folks house.
For the last 2 years my wi-fi has been slightly less than reliable, my parents – on the other hand – seem to have a constant stream of internet that works across my iPhone, old 2004 E-Mac (no – I still haven’t got rid of it) and my work laptop.
It’s quiet. While I’m not sure if it’s possible to ‘love’ the suburbs, after 14 years of living in the middle of London the peace, greenery and general air of calm is a welcome change.
I don’t walk out of my door into nasty markets which sell everything from batteries that have fallen off the backs of vans through to thinly knitted jumpers for a fiver. Instead, a short walk from the house, there is a rather pleasant coffee place selling TeaPigs tea, a (designer) second hand store and a Budgens supermarket. Being on a budget I can’t afford to shop at any of them, but they’re infinitely easier on the eye than the Rising “only 1 in 20 people get knifed here” Sun, and the Camden “you don’t have to be an alcoholic to drink here, but it helps” Head pubs on the corner of my old road.
It’s really friendly at home. More than once over the last 5 days an argument between Danny and I has been diffused by the fact that we’ve stopped bickering to chat to the other members of the household. By the time the chat is over we’ve forgotten what we were getting so heated about (normally it’s the usual ‘one sausage or two’ style debate) and the discussion continues at more manageable levels.
After 6 years of living on my own I quite like the joie de vivre that is inherent in a house full of people who all live interesting lives and have an opinion on everything (did I mention there are also my parent’s 20-something lodgers – a gorgeous couple who are any housemates’ dream). There’s always a chat to be had, a comment to be made, and story to be told; and even the fact that Danny and I are sleeping in single beds cannot dampen the enjoyment of not having the responsibility of a flat and the chores that go along with that.
Oh and did I mention it was warm?
This is what I’ve spent the last few months waiting for: The days when there was nothing else to think about bar where we were going to, rather than where we were moving from. Our two flats have been like millstones around our necks – elements that had to be ‘dealt with’ in order to get to the point where we could focus wholly on the establishment and running of our guest house. It’s surprising how much time we have now we are not running around like loonies juggling estate agents, solicitors, mortgage brokers, bankers and vendors.
My parents house is like the calm between the storms. The place of respite. The oasis in the desert. It’s what my parents have always offered me and what I’ve always taken for granted. This time however, knowing what’s around the corner, I’m going to do my damndest to appreciate it while I have the chance, and promise to be a better houseguest this (and most probably the last) time round.