This weekend, I spent with my family. At 27, why does that seem unglamorous? I guess because, as consumer culture stipulates, I'm meant to be out glugging grog with my girls; head flung back in wild abandon, and swinging my hips in rhythm. Mission: to attract an eligible bachelor-cum-mate to overcome the neurosis of being late-twenties and not knowing if it will all be OK. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying that such antics are bad, slutty or inappropriate. On the contrary: they are utterly natural. Nor was I without my invitations: dinner with friends on Friday night, the movies with friends on Saturday night and a luxurious sauna, steam bath and swim in a salt-water pool on Sunday. Any right-minded person would view this as a rather satisfactory weekend: as I did. However, I turned all of these offers down. Why? To spend time with my family.
After a busy week in Hamburg, visiting friends, having business meetings, shopping, and spending time with my boyfriend; arriving back to the UK with 20 minutes sleep the night before, dropping my suitcase at home, throwing a cup of coffee down my neck and fl
ying out of the door to run a theatre workshop with 18 highly excitable 13-17's; I simply wanted to go home and crash out in front of the telly to catch up on Eastenders.
ying out of the door to run a theatre workshop with 18 highly excitable 13-17's; I simply wanted to go home and crash out in front of the telly to catch up on Eastenders.Waking the next day, on Saturday morning, to the deep, soothing rumblings of my brother's voice requesting something or other of my Mother; Mum's gentle, cooing reply and the sound of Cleo meowing for -you guessed it- food- created a pleasant relapse to five years old. I woke with a quiet and private excitement, wanting to join in the early family functioning, brekky, tea and indiscriminate winding-up.
There is something to be said for living back at home after years of flat-shares and the likes. After sharing a gorgeous and well-attired apartment with a young man for 18 months (who was perfectly lovely but a little strange); I felt that I was maintaining a household that could do with a little bit more sharing of the soul. It caused some mortal embarrassment to return to the maternal nest. I felt I should be living with a partner/husband/fiance and if not, at least a very good friend. They, I must add, have insisted on getting married, moving in with boyfriends and most of them, choosing to leave the UK altogether. I was and remain delighted for them and yet, I have this horrid sensation of being left behind. These irrational and neurotic sensations aside, I have to say that moving home was one of the best decisions that I could have made.
Sharing family meals, having a sense of belonging, a raised disposable income, regular and mutual teasing sessions with my younger brother as well as Monday nights with the same
Lil' bro watching America's Next Top Model: I have to say that I am perfectly comfortable. Not that they don't piss me off; off course they do, that is expected and perfectly natural. But, my point is that: I think there is something right about living with family.
Lil' bro watching America's Next Top Model: I have to say that I am perfectly comfortable. Not that they don't piss me off; off course they do, that is expected and perfectly natural. But, my point is that: I think there is something right about living with family.Why do we move out to live in exorbitantly-priced apartments with strangers, shovelling down last night's take-away and worrying about whether our wages will stretch to the rent, bills; the new Louis Vuitton scarf and the deposit on the holiday with
the girls in the summer? Your crockery in separate cupboards from your roomie, like a halls-of-residence nightmare? Especially as I have never lived in halls: during my three years at drama school, I lived in a fabulous loft apartment with views over Central London, with good friends. Why did things seem to be going backwards? I was living the single-girl-about-town dream but was pretty limited in how to consistently afford to look the part. Meanwhile, some oligarch, property Fat-Cat is living cushy as anything, dr
essed as dapper as Tom Ford on a good night, with all the trappings and splendour of affluent life? Unless your parents are sadly deceased, living overseas or psychopathic, why put oneself through the hassle? Living with the family, the costs are shared, the bills are shared, the (sorry to be gooey) love is shared; you eat together, laugh together, moan at each other with no repercussion and moreover, Mum just loves her babies coming home.
the girls in the summer? Your crockery in separate cupboards from your roomie, like a halls-of-residence nightmare? Especially as I have never lived in halls: during my three years at drama school, I lived in a fabulous loft apartment with views over Central London, with good friends. Why did things seem to be going backwards? I was living the single-girl-about-town dream but was pretty limited in how to consistently afford to look the part. Meanwhile, some oligarch, property Fat-Cat is living cushy as anything, dr
essed as dapper as Tom Ford on a good night, with all the trappings and splendour of affluent life? Unless your parents are sadly deceased, living overseas or psychopathic, why put oneself through the hassle? Living with the family, the costs are shared, the bills are shared, the (sorry to be gooey) love is shared; you eat together, laugh together, moan at each other with no repercussion and moreover, Mum just loves her babies coming home.She says I must stay here until I'm married. I'm not sure about that but hey, Maggie Hobson or not, I am totally over flat-sharing. For me, it's a Mugs' Game.
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