This post is part of a weekly series of ‘link-up’ Posts which reflect on life’s journey, old memories and family stories (see below for more info).
So, having reviewed your childhood TV Classics last week, I thought we’d move forward a few years this time around. Childhood has gone and adulthood is staring you in the face. Time to move out. What’s your story?
I was 18.
The long and the short of it was that I had completed my A levels, had absolutely no desire to pursue the University-lined route which my teachers had in mind, and had landed myself a job. Oh. Yes….and I was in love with a man *ahem* 20 years my senior, but that, as they say, is a WHOLE other chapter…..
My new job was in insurance *stifles a yawn* and I was now considerably more ‘minted’ than my impoverished University pals. I had landed the inordinately large salary of £3200 pounds per annum. Oh yeaaah. Read it and weep, people. I was, in my mind, well on the way to becoming Birmingham’s next Rockefeller.
It was with these circumstances in mind that, at 18, I put into immediate practise the impulsive streak which has plagued my entire life, and moved out.
I don’t remember it being a tearful occasion, but looking back, it was a pretty big move. My parents were unable to open the champagne just yet, since my large lummox of a big brother would still be tied firmly to the apron strings for at least another 4 years. My best friend and I had rented a flat together – the top floor of a 3 storey Victorian knacker in a bit of a sorry area.
On the first visit, my parents stifled a cough and said ‘lovely, darling’. The second visit never seemed to happen.
I couldn’t cook (much) and knew little about running a household, but it was a hell of an education. We never missed a rent payment, or skipped a bill. Ever. We learned a lot about each other, not all of it good, but we managed two years together in the damp, single-bedded apartment that still holds many of the memories from my early adulthood.
My friend emigrated to Canada. Drastic, but perhaps ultimately easier than telling me she hated me.
At the aged of 21 I bought my first home. It was a hole, but it was my hole. Did I really just write that? I can hardly believe that I still have this tatty old document….
So, I’ve shown you mine. Will you show me yours?
Tell me the story of the day you moved out, or the first home you lived in which wasn’t your parents. Please share this Post and ask your bloggy friends to join in with the Link-Up!!
If you feel sexy, grab the code too (just follow the link below) and post it into your Blog entry – that way, everyone can pay it forward as they say – it’s good to share.
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In next week’s Linky we will take a look back at old boyfriends. I might even tell you my story about that very old man I fell in love with…..(tempted?) Come back here and join in with the Blog Hop next Tuesday…
A selection of other posts from this series:-
Week 2 - Old School Portrait
Week 4 - Bestest Friends
Week 5 - Teenage Crushes
Week 6 - First Movie Memories
Week 19 - Becoming a Parent