‘Last night I lay in my single bed, in my teenage bedroom – still decked out
in pink and that horrendous Anne Geddes print of three babies dressed as
bumblebees that was so popular in the ’90s – wondering if I was the world’s
biggest loser.
I left my hometown of West Bromwich 11 years ago to pursue my dream of writing
for glossy magazines in London. So how did a successful, ambitious,
30-something like me end up back in a place that I’d spent my teens
desperate to leave?
There are 3 million adults in the UK living with their parents, but when I
spread my wings in 2001 and left home aged 22 for the bright lights of
London, I never dreamed I would one day end up as one of them.
In fact, I’d have laughed in your face if you’d told me that, at 33, I’d be
shouted at for forgetting to unload the dishwasher, and that the only
goodnight kiss I’d be getting was from my mum.
After eight dizzy years building a career as a writer, then a columnist, and
finally an editor, I jacked it all in to travel around South America on my
own, then live and work in Sydney, Australia, for a year.
I thought I was Bondi Beach’s answer to Carrie Bradshaw – working hard,
playing hard, dating guys, and living a generally fabulous life.
Now sitting with my mum, Surjit, 60, watching her favourite soaps every night,
those glamorous days feel like they happened to someone else.
My return from Oz in March 2011 was prompted when my mum was diagnosed with
vascular disease and this, on top of her severe arthritis, meant she could
no longer walk unaided. My parents are separated and my sister Brinder, 31,
is studying and working full time, so it was up to me to step in and help
Mum. I didn’t hesitate in agreeing to come home, she needed me and that was
all that mattered.
Perhaps naively, I thought that now I was in my 30s, living at home would be a
different experience. I could still be a ‘grown up’ and lead an independent
life.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Within weeks, I felt like I’d stepped into a
time warp and emerged as the stroppy teen I was all those years ago.
It all hit home
When I lived in London, every time I’d come back home for a visit I’d
unashamedly regress back to my teenage self, safe in the knowledge I’d be
leaving soon enough to re-join grown-up life.
Now my every waking moment is spent worrying that I’m never going to escape
again.
I’ve learned the hard way that my mum is always going to treat me like a
child, and, what’s more embarrassing, I find myself reacting like one,
stomping off to my room, muttering under my breath about my ‘private space’.
Staying at home means it’s Mum’s house and her rules. She still loves cooking
big Indian banquet-style meals, but I don’t love eating them as much as I
did when I was a chubby teenager.
My ‘London diet’ has no place here.
When I tried to explain the Dukan diet to my mum so I could cook my own
separate, carb-free meals, she said: ‘You don’t need to do the “dukes diet”,
you just need to do some sit-ups!’
In London, I worked long hours in the office. When I finally did log off my
computer, if I wasn’t going for drinks or dinner in the evening, I’d get
home at 9pm, heat up some soup and slob out in front of an episode of Sex
And The City.
Now I’ve swapped one cliché for another. Mum serves dinner at 7pm prompt, and
then we watch Emmerdale.
I can’t even relax and crack open a bottle of red now. A few weeks after I
moved home, I bought a bottle of my favourite, very expensive Rioja. After
drinking a couple of glasses one evening, I left the half-full bottle in the
kitchen.
The next morning I found it in the recycling bin after she’d poured the
remaining contents down the sink.
The worst part is that my reaction appeared to confirm to her that I was a
crazed alcoholic who needed dear old Mum to help me go cold turkey.
Now every time I cradle a glass of vino close to my chest, I have to put up
with her disapproving looks.
I tried to regain some semblance of a social life by arranging to see an old
friend who is now married with two beautiful children and living in a
gorgeous house. But I couldn’t bear how pathetic I felt in comparison. I
just kept thinking: ‘After all these years I’m back living at home with my
mum and, apart from travelling debts, have nothing to show for it.’
Although I achieved a lot of my career goals in London, romantically, my life
was depressing. I thought moving home might be the perfect opportunity to
meet ‘The One’ and settle down, but there’s nothing remotely attractive
about telling a guy you’ve just met you live with your mum (I’d run a mile
if the situation was reversed). And forget about me bringing any suitors
home. Mum’s rules and all that…
But despite my moaning, it’s not been all bad. In the last 10 months I’ve
spent more time with my mum than I had done in the previous 10 years. It has
brought the whole family much closer.
I now appreciate that my London lifestyle was a pretty shallow existence –
although that’s not to say I don’t look back fondly to the time I met
Victoria Beckham at a party and nearly wet myself with excitement. It also
means no more frivolities such as coffee and sushi every day, which has to
be a (financially) good thing.
Mum’s on the mend and getting her independence back, so hopefully that means
the same for me and I’ll be flying the nest some time this year. Where to I
don’t know, but I’m looking forward to rejoining grown-up life and not
having to look at those bumblebee babies every night!”
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