Up until my 19th birthday, I lived with my parents down on the South Coast. It was a small bungalow my dad had acquired in the 60s for less than £20,000, which he subsequently extended after he met my mum and their family grew. My two sisters and I shared the master bedroom – complete with bunk beds and band posters – while my brother, being the only boy, got a small box room all to himself, next to my parents’.
For me, childhood was a blur of play fights, role play and mischief. Yes, mealtimes were akin to modern warfare and yes, it was absolute chaos at times, but I had built-in best friends, and I never thought that would change.
So, when it did, and my siblings had all left home by the time I was 12, it was particularly unsettling. I had effectively become an only child overnight – and despite the obvious perk of having a room to myself for the very first time, I absolutely hated it. The silence was stifling.
As a result, in the years that followed, I tried to replicate some of that magic of having a larger family. I went from university halls – a kind of halfway house, which allowed me both the privacy of my own space and access to my friends whenever the mood struck – to sofa-surfing at their places in London until I could cobble together a deposit. I craved that connection and wanted to avoid being alone at all costs, even if that meant sacrificing my living standards as a result.
