The other day I found myself standing in my kitchen while my daughter explained where the mugs should go.
Not suggested, explained.
To be fair to Belle, she had recently refurbished the kitchen, so she had a legitimate interest in the placement of crockery. It’s difficult to argue with someone who has personally sanded the kitchen worktops and hung panelling effect wallpaper. Still, there was something about being gently instructed in my own home that made me realise a subtle shift had taken place. The balance of power was changing. Not officially, obviously. She’s not said time to find your granny flat Mum, or anything like that. I still pay the mortgage and I’m the one who knows how to reset the boiler, but there is definitely a growing sense that Belle, at 23, is becoming the grown-up in residence.
And do you know what? I’m completely fine with it.
In fact, I’ve started entertaining what I think is a genuinely excellent idea. Rather than waiting for Belle to move out, perhaps I should move out instead. Not very far, mind you. I’m thinking somewhere between twenty and thirty feet away. Somewhere at the bottom of the garden.
The dream
The older I get, the more appealing this idea becomes. While previous generations might have expected their children to leave home in their late teens or early twenties, things look very different now. House prices are ridiculous, rents are eye-watering and saving for a deposit can feel about as achievable as buying a small island in the Caribbean. It’s no surprise that more young adults are staying at home for longer. If I were 23 now and faced with spending the best part of my salary on a room barely large enough to swing a cat in, I’d be staying put too.
The thing is, while we spend a lot of time talking about adult children living at home, nobody really talks about the parents. We’re expected to keep maintaining the family home indefinitely, even when the family dynamic has changed completely. Increasingly, I find myself wondering whether we’ve got it the wrong way round. Perhaps the young people should inherit the house and the parents should retreat to a small but perfectly formed annex with a kettle, a comfortable chair and a decent Wi-Fi connection.
I’ve become strangely attracted to the idea of having less. Less space, less clutter, less cleaning and fewer cupboards filled with items I haven’t looked at since David Cameron was Prime Minister. I don’t actually need that much room. My fantasy granny flat contains a small kitchen, a cosy living space, enough room for an armchair and a bookshelf packed with crime novels. There would be a place for the cats to sleep, a corner for the dog to sprawl dramatically across the floor and a window beside which I could sit with a cup of tea and stare thoughtfully into the middle distance whenever I felt the urge to imagine myself as a character in an Agatha Christie novel.
One of the things nobody tells you about getting older is how your relationship with possessions changes. When I was younger, more space felt exciting because it meant more room for things. Now, more space mostly feels like more things to dust. I look around my house sometimes and wonder why I’ve devoted so much of my life to maintaining square footage.
Of course, there are practical issues with my plan. The garden isn’t enormous. Planning permission exists for a reason. I suspect my neighbours would have questions if I suddenly erected a tiny cottage and started referring to it as ‘the west wing’. There is also the awkward question of whether 48 is a little young to be voluntarily moving into what is essentially a granny flat. Traditionally, I think you’re supposed to wait until retirement before embracing this sort of lifestyle. I’ve apparently skipped ahead to that chapter.
The more I think about it though, the more sensible it seems. Belle gets the house she’s already halfway to taking over anyway. She has transformed the kitchen, has strong opinions about furniture placement and seems infinitely more enthusiastic than I am about household improvements. Meanwhile, I get a simplified life, a shorter cleaning list and somewhere peaceful to write. It feels less like downsizing and more like finally admitting what I actually enjoy.
The only problem is that I know exactly how this story ends. I’d spend months creating my perfect little garden retreat, proudly arranging my books and congratulating myself on my new minimalist lifestyle. Then one afternoon Belle would appear at the door, take one look at my kitchen cupboards and start explaining where the mugs should go. Some things, it seems, are inevitable.