On Flying The Nest

Right folks, I've been considering whether or not to write about this for a while, but I figure I may as well. It's going to sound like a moan, but it isn't - I'm well aware people have bigger problems on their plates and don't mean to sound like a drama queen!

Let me bring you up to date. I'm 25, and I still live at home. This isn't so unusual in itself, except that I have lived away from home (quite far away from home, really) before and so I know what I'm missing. But here the plot thickens. I've never considered moving out since I've been home, because my family all work together to pay the mortgage and the bills. One weak link, and it wouldn't have worked. Before Christmas, my dad lost his job, so things got even more difficult. He's decided to sell the house, which is a decision I completely agree with. With the money he gets from this he'll be able to clear some debt and buy a smaller place outright. Also, my mum is ill and really struggles with stairs, so a two-storey house with one bathroom upstairs isn't ideal. They've found a ground-floor flat that will be perfect for both of them. It's an opportunity they really shouldn't miss.

The only thing is, it only has 2 bedrooms - and I'm far too old to be sharing with my brother who, incidentally, would throttle me within a week. He's a neat freak and I'm...well...not. What's more, my dad won't need my money to make ends meet, I have been rendered somewhat obsolete. I'm free to fly the nest - without feeling guilty. And I'm bloody excited about it. I know it will probably cripple me financially, but at the moment I don't care. I'm just looking forward to moving on - to moving out. I love my family and I love living with them. But I need to stand on my own two feet now. I'm not Peter Pan, however much I'd like to be, and really must continue this growing up malarkey before I'm completely grey.

I just keep having random thoughts about what's going to happen to the black bags stuffed full of memories in the loft. Or the tools and garden furniture cluttering up the shed. Or my dad's books, which line almost every wall in the house. There won't be room for these things. It's amazing how many memories flood back. Stupid ones like being told to finish my dinner in the garden because I couldn't stop giggling at the dinner table. Or staying up late to finish GCSE coursework, and my mum coming down at 3 in the morning to check I was ok. Or trying to push my dog (the late, great Dave) off the sofa so that I could sit down. I could go on forever. I think it was easier living away before because I knew this place would be here when I was ready to come back. It won't be soon, and that will be a really, really odd feeling.

Still, one should always look on the bright side, which is what I'll be doing. My mum will be safer, my dad financially sorted and I, finally, will be a law unto myself, returned to the wild, just like that Killer Whale from Free Willy.