nd by “living in your own place” I mean “not with parent(s)”. Yeah, that. It’s amazing. Probably not news to many of you, but this is something I’ve only discovered since moving out of my dad’s flat in September.
Maybe I have a slightly skewed perspective because I’m pretty lucky. I’m living with three lurvely housemates, made even lovelier by the fact that none of ’em work regular office hours. Ergo no need to schedule showers, no crowding around the toaster/microwave/kettle and no queue to make dinner at the same time. There’s also none of this ‘stick to your own milk’ bollocks. “Mi milk es su milk”, or something. It’s all very relaxed at ours.
But the best thing about my house is living with fellow Domestic Slut Sian. Not only are there twice as many freebies (ranging from hot pink kitchen paper to fancy vodka and tea towel after tea towel after sodding tea towel), but it’s like having a fellow partner in crime. Delicious, Nigel Slater-influenced crime. It’s also great to have someone to yell at the telly with every time Nigella chats breeze about pixies and moonlight.
Another awesome thing about living with a mate? If you’ve had a crappy day, they will totally prepare lovely things for when you get home. A couple of months ago I had the most paHAINfully dull first date. But arriving home to pizza and a specially-ordered tub of Ben & Jerry’s took the soul-destroying edge off the situation. By the time we’d finished watching IT Crowd, I was over it.
So for now, I’m loving not living with parents. Yes, there’s rent and bills and things, but once I worked out what standing order was (a whole five weeks ago…) it’s not so much of a hassle.
I do miss the cat though.