Hi Honey... I'm Home

Although my parents swear that their house is still my ‘home’, I can’t help but think they slightly regret not getting their front door key back. Even if they’d tried, they wouldn’t have succeeded. To me, it’s not just a key to my childhood but to a whole other world where life is sweet.

Each time I let myself in unannounced, they look startled and guilty. Although they also swear that they’re far too busy doing DIY to be watching Countdown, there always seems to be lots of scurrying and cushion patting as they scoot out of the living room when I arrive.

To be fair, it took them a long time to get me out in the first place and I think the fear that I might return on a permanent basis still lingers.

At 21, I bought a house which needed ‘work’. I then made my dad do the ‘work’ and my mum sew all the soft furnishings whilst I considered fabric samples and drove to B&Q to get sandpaper and new drill bits for dad. After six months of ownership, I finally slept there.

Three miles away, my parents could hardly believe their luck. 21 years and now dad could finally watch what he wanted on tv. Mum could have a lie in now that she was no longer required to kneel at her adult daughter’s bedside each morning, posting marmite on toast between the gap in her front teeth.

Halfway through their satisfied sighs, they heard a noise. It sounded very much like a key in a lock. They exchanged glances, hoping it wasn’t burglars. Unfortunately, it was far worse. It was me. Mum made me a cup of tea whilst I reclaimed the remote and explained to my despondent father that I just wasn’t cut out for living alone.

Two years later, I was bound for Spain where I’d live for a year. My dad’s hand twitched in anticipation of all the golf and snooker he could soon be watching. Arrival at my final destination was via Holland, where a de-briefing conference thing was to be held first. Dad dropped me off at Church where I boarded a mini-bus.

Eighteen hours later, via lots of other countries where we picked up lots of very excited people, we arrived. Tired and feeling less exuberant than my associates, I stood before my accommodation. Think big scout hut, made of corrugated iron. I looked around the field I was sinking into, regretting my recent life choices.

The inside was worse. Steel bunk beds were lined up under fluorescent strip lights. Having never owned a sleeping bag, it hadn’t occurred to me to take one. But with no bedding provided, I realised my mistake.

The next day, as I boarded an aeroplane back to England, I clutched my front door key hardly able to wait to see my fully furnished home and mum and dad’s happy little faces.