It’s official. Moving day is here.
Next weekend, I will be moving out the house I’ve lived in for almost twenty years to move out to live with my Fiancé.
I have lived away from home when I was at uni – I was further away from my family then too – but this time feels different. The best way I can describe it is that this time, it’s real. Before, I would come back at the weekends and out of term times. I was only a student then. Not this time.
This time, I’m an adult (allegedly). I have a job, mortgage and bills. That means no more taking my washing home for Mum to do or buying crap to eat just because.
No. Now I have to measure for curtains and iron my bed sheets. A few days ago, I spent ten minutes ironing my new bed covers to realise that someone turned the iron off when I looked away. Did I start again?
Did I fuck!
This is a clear sign I am not ready to be an adult. Clearly, I cannot take care of myself. However, no one has stood up to say that I have failed my entry level exam to adulthood so here I go!