Still living with my parents at the age of 50
Jeremy Clarke, 50, has lived with his mother and father in the same Cleethorpes house since he was born – and there’s no way out
Iknew my life was not going to plan when my parents’ gift on my 50th birthday was an adult-size single bed. It turns out that, up until now, I had been unknowingly sleeping in a child’s single bed. Full disclosure: I am extremely short for a man – if I were a chocolate, I’d be ‘fun-size’.
Still, I expected my doting parents to have upgraded my bed over the years. I suppose I should be thankful I’m not still ensconced in an Action Man duvet-andpillow twinset.
Second disclosure – I still live with my parents, having never moved out, like Timothy Lumsden, the Ronnie Corbett character in Sorry!, the comedy that began 40 years ago, in 1981. I shall be with them at Christmas as I have been for ever.
Being a tiny man, I was aware romance was never on the cards – unless that card read ‘LULU. Lives local, discreet’. ‘Tall’ always trumps ‘GSOH’ for the lonely-hearted lady. It’s absurd to think that, rather than having a good laugh, most women would prefer not to see the top of their beau’s head.
The job market for creatives in Cleethorpes, the northern seaside town where I live, meant it was difficult to afford a bus ticket, let alone a rental deposit.
My parents, between periods of utter despair and resentment at my continued presence, have been understanding. It helps that everyone in the house is under five foot one – so the three-bedroomed semi is roomier than for three adult-sized adults. There’s less chance of cabin fever for us tiny folk.
Still, on ‘dusting day’ – Monday, despite my petitioning for a change to Wednesday at the last family meeting – the dusting wands are always fully telescoped. Reaching crevices was never going to be our thing.
Some summers ago, we had to coax the extremely tall, extremely agoraphobic spinster three doors down out of her house for the first time in 20 years, to capture a bird that had glided out of the flue to sit on our out-of-reach curtain rail. The game old girl allowed us to put a dust sheet over her at her front door – so she didn’t know she was outside. Once inside our house, she ingeniously used the dust sheet to capture the bird.
There was no fairy-tale cure to her agoraphobia. We haven’t seen her since, though I’m happy to report Asda still delivers her weekly shopping – so there’s a sign of life of sorts.
Not only have I lived with my parents my whole life, but also in the same house. I would love my parents – and myself – to be declared the longestserving residents of the street.
Sadly, an even-longer-term resident, Jinty, a sickly-looking woman (so sickly that, by the millennium, I thought I would have it ‘in the bag’), is still staring gormlessly but purposefully at me from her generous porch when I walk up the cul-de-sac.
Other than my parents, that’s the main thing I don’t like about living here. Because ours is the last house on the left in the cul-de-sac, there’s no way in or out without having to walk past the various households
I’ve feuded with over the years. I look as if I’m inflicted with facial tics and twitches, as I try to remember which house I’m acknowledging with a nod and which with a scowl, and changing awkwardly between the two modes before the next driveway.
Since COVID began, I’ve been shopping for my parents – more walks up and down this damned road. I know it’s time I gave something back for all these rent-free years. But I think the scale has tipped too far the other way, now that the weeks have become months.
My cheeky, distant – and six-foot-two! – brother called me to make sure I was coping with COVID measures. I assured him I eat separately from our parents, distract myself by watching daytime runs of Can’t Pay? We’ll Take It Away and tell my parents to stay the hell away from me.
‘So, just like a normal year for you,’ he quipped in the condescending tone that resonates from the ribcage of the overly tall man.
I once spent three and a half days setting my parents up on a computer and tutoring them in how to use emails. The first email they received was from my brother’s wife, announcing he was now a ‘superhead’ of a school. Champagne was opened, sherry was schoonered, with not a word of thanks for my free e-learning event.
I muttered that clinking glasses for Long-gone Tom the Superteacher reminded me of the parable of the prodigal son. My father corrected me: ‘Tom has never shamed the family and been forgiven. You are more like the prodigal son – you just never left.’
In response, I buried myself in the local newspaper, looking for the classified rooms-to-let section. Unfortunately, owing to COVID and the decline in print advertising, there was no such section.
‘No one can say my son’s not trying,’ my mother said, with a wink.