The REAL reason grown women like me won’t leave home
Parents beware: it will make your blood boil!
MY NAME is called and I make my way to the dining room. As I’ve requested, there are sweet potatoes to accompany the chicken — breast meat only.
Even better, there’s apple crumble — just this side of tart with a hint of cinnamon, and a choice of custard or creme fraiche.
No, I’m not in a country house hotel. I’m at home with my doting parents, and homemade meals like this come as part of my allinclusive package.
When I tell people I’m a 30yearold woman who still lives at home, they pity me. They tuttut about rising house prices and I nod in agreement, explaining that my meagre earnings as a freelance makes leaving home any time soon a financial impossibility.
I am part of a generation who can’t get wellpaid jobs, can’t afford houses and as a result can’t even leave home.
But it’s a little more complicated than that. The truth is that living in the comfortable luxury of my family home, a warm, cheerfully decorated, fourbedroom, semidetached house in North London — a property way beyond my means as a single woman — means that I have no impetus to leave.
Why should I? Where could I live this well, with three meals a day, a laundry service, full use of the garden and all utilities — all completely free? Where is the incentive to strike out on my own? I know my friends feel the same. No wonder a survey by Saga magazine revealed that there are nearly three million 20 to 34yearolds living with their parents.
WE ARE known as the boomerangers — the generation who have come back to live off the wealth created by our baby boomer parents, now in their 60s.
I admit I do get the odd stab of shame when I think that my parents had left home by my age.
Like most people of their generation, it was unthinkable that they would still be living with their parents in their 30s. Traditionally, you l i ved at home until you married, at which point you set up home with your spouse.
When most people married in their early 20s, that made perfect sense. But times have changed.
In Europe, it’s normal to remain in your childhood homes into your adult years, and sometimes even after marriage. It’s now happening in Britain.
While sociologists warn of the creation of a stunted generation unprepared for the responsibilities of adult life, I don’t see it that way. Why should I leave a home I’m happy in just to conform to social norms, when my parents are still happy for me to live here? In fact, my younger sisters, who are in their 20s, still live at home, too.
Furthermore, I know the dire nature of the alternative. In a foolish bid for independence, I moved out of home for a year in my mid20s, renting a room in a shared house in East London with five other young people. I hated it.
The kitchen sink was permanently overflowing with dirty crockery (yes, some of it was mine) and the house was freezing because we couldn’t afford to heat it. After a year, I’d had quite enough of having to queue for my morning shower as if I was at a campsite.
From the cheap furniture to the bland decor, l i ving i n rented accommodation was absolute misery. Then there were my housemates. While two are still friends, if I never see the others again it will be a blessing.
When my contract was up, I happily moved back home. Months later I was still furious with myself for spending £600 a month to live in a dirty house with people I couldn’t stand.
Of course, there are times when my parents, sisters and I fall out, but because we love each other, things blow over quickly.
Occasionally, other people will make snide comments about my ‘poor parents’ and muse on how desperate they must be for me to flee the nest, but this couldn’t be further from the truth.
My parents have worked hard to build a comfortable family home and are only too pleased that I still want to live in it.
When I moved out in my 20s, Mum was indignant; she took it as a personal insult that I wanted to leave her lovely home and castigated me for frittering away my hardearned money on paying a greedy landlord’s mortgage. Now I’m back home, some other people assume my l i vi ng situation would make me a social pariah among my peers.
In fact, like me, most of my friends are still living wit h their parents.
Not only does it make financial sense, but we recognise we’d be stupid to suffer in discomfort and penury just to prove a point.
Other friends say they would still be at home given the chance. Even the ones who wear their domestic independence like a badge of honour run home to mummy and daddy at the first sign of a cold or after a breakup.
The truth is nothing will ever be as comforting as a homecooked meal followed by a TV marathon on your parents’ sofa, no matter how old you are.
The fridge is always wellstocked and we never run out of milk or toilet roll — which can’t be said about the homes of friends who live by themselves.
But not everyone agrees that my setup is a lifestyle nirvana. I’ve been accused of holding myself back and missing out on the freedom of being young and single.
And while I admit that living at home means you can’t invite a long line of boyfriends back to stay or host wild parties, I can live with that. If I want to sit up drinking all night, I can do it at the home of one of my friends who rents.
Best of all, after a weekend of partying, I can always return to a warm, clean house. It really is the best of both worlds.
Meanwhile, I’m not expected to contribute to the running of the house, financially or otherwise.
While my dad, who owns a shop, works six days a week to pay the bills, my stayathome mum spends her days cleaning, washing and tidying up my mess.
Yes, I may have to sleep in a single bed, but I never have to wash the sheets myself.
That said, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t conscious that I’m not pulling my weight. For my part, I live by my parents’ rules, work hard and try to make them proud. I’m also an enthusiastic cook and make a family meal at least once a week.
It’s not much, but it’s heartfelt on my part and appreciated by them. It’s not always plain sailing, though. On occasion, my parents have rebelled. More than once Mum has thrown in the tea towel, and the pair of them have demanded that my sisters and I do more to help out.
In fact, a note outlining our household responsibilities — including putting dirty crockery straight in the dishwasher and keeping our rooms tidy — is stuck on the fridge door as testament to one such row.
But actually, nothing really changes. After years of living together, we’re stuck in our ways, regardless of the rights or wrongs. Spoilt? Quite possibly. Cosseted from the harsh realities of the world? Almost certainly.
Living in a state of suspended adolescence?
All of these things may be true. And I’d ponder them deeply, honestly I would. But right now Mum is calling me down for dinner.