(digs)
I moved out when I was 18. I wasn’t compelled to go, or even encouraged. I was entranced by the idea of my own space and being in charge of my own time/life/fate.
Of course, at that time, rent was something like £15 a week, electricity was a 50p meter, gas was not connected (that flat was just always cold), and internet was in the distant future.
By way of amenities; there was a pay phone in the hall (between about 8 flats), a Baby Belling (small cooker, for the younger readers, who may also need an explanation for “pay-phone”), a cold water only sink, and a fridge that was last defrosted in 1920 something. There may have been a two-bar electric fire, but even if it could be afforded, it made little impact on the high ceiling(13′) room with a giant draughty bay window. It was, however, a great party flat, and (later) an accessible motorcycle workshop.
I suspect a thick coating of nostalgia colours this picture rather more rosy than the actual gritty reality of my early independence. There was a lot of hard choosing between power/coffee/rent/food or alcohol. Many (freezing) days, there was nought but marmalade to eat (another story).
Still, while cold and sometimes hungry, there were stark lessons to learn in budget and savings, and entertaining yourself.
The lovely Chris, who works in student accommodation, happened to mention, that the new students (until very recently) were each provided with their own duvet! This, in their private, centrally heated, double-glazed, carpeted, wifi included, all mod con flats.
It also all comes at a very steep price. Adjusting for inflation, monthly rent (£60) would perhaps equate to £200 today, but the lowest figure is much more like five times that!
I suspect it would be illegal now to rent out some of the accommodation I’ve stayed in, and even if it were not, today’s youth would not consider it “fit for habitation”, and perhaps this actually is progress, however much I might hold that my experience was “good for the soul”, and “never did me any harm”.
This prohibitive cost has, however, brought one unexpected benefit – when I moved out at 18, I was so certain I was now a grown-up (I wish I were so sure now at 61), but of course, I had a great deal to learn and much to grow, and I did this all away from my parents. Perhaps that was just as expected then, but I (we) have instead enjoyed these shared years with our sons, to watch them become the young men they are now.
Surely they will fly the nest in due time, and perhaps they will never know the need to choose between a jar of coffee or a discounted meal, but it’s our privilege to have had this time.
Sometimes even an old Dog has nothing to complain about.
Next week on IaDL: Some travesty of justice no doubt…
Dalmallyfest the Asylum 