The big 3- 0: What Berlin can’t cure, there’s no cure for
“So, what are you doing for your 30th?”
I paused. Somehow, “Fucking off to Berlin to black out in a sex club” didn’t seem like the most mature response, but it felt like an appropriate escape from adult responsibilities.
It’s no surprise that in the run- up to the dreaded milestone birthday, many of us feel slightly — if not, entirely — inadequate; things didn’t work out how we thought, and our romanticised notions of life have already been quietly suff ocated by fuckboys, toxic friends and being forced to pay taxes. But perhaps the most unsettling thing for me was being a 30- year- old who still lived at home.
It’s worse when one of you ( me) works from home and the other ( Dad) is retired, making our house like a kooky sitcom about two unlikely companions who bond over absolutely nothing, and sit in silence until one of them dies.
I’ve stayed for two reasons, mostly. Firstly, because working as a writer and comedian isn’t always the most stable income ( as proved when my fi rst costly attempt to move out collapsed quicker than a British Parliament) and, secondly, because “Renting is throwing your money down the drain!” according to Dad. But why was I breaking my back to own property anyway? To die in it?
Although I’d love to own the roof over my head, I worry that overthinking my future means missing out on my present. More specifi cally, a relationship. As an ambitious Capricorn, I’m sure on some level I feel like I don’t even deserve one until I’m happy with where I am in life.
Living at home means having shags over is obviously not an option. Meanwhile, my dad’s girlfriend stays twice a week. And as much as I support a woman’s right to destroy some cock, I just wish it wasn’t my dad’s.
On the fl ip side, I pay no rent and can save money each month – something that defi nitely wouldn’t have been possible living away from home. But again, at what cost? I could die tomorrow with a few grand sitting in the bank, and my last remotely sexual experience would be being seeing Sheila’s undergarments on the stairs.
They say the grass is always greener ( which is true when your dad won’t let you smoke weed in the house), but is life passing me by, or do I have a severe case of FOMO? After all, nearly all my London- born friends still live at home, and seem OK with that.
It’s a catch- 30, but what is the lesser of two evils? Living with a dad who has more sex than you, but having the money to drown the pain in an underground Berlin dungeon, or living with a stranger who never does the washing- up? Berlin wins, obvs.
“I support a woman’s right to destroy some cock; just not my dad’s”