I’m changing the locks to the house because I don’t want the children getting any funny ideas that might put my marriage at risk.
I read with interest that there’s an alarming number of children who feel it is appropriate, at the age of 30, to move back in to their family home.
With their parents still in it.
In our case they’d be bringing others. Husbands. Children. A tribe.
In 1980, statistics tell us one in 10 post-graduates saw fit to again sponge off their parents after they’d splashed the money they earned at Maccas against a wall with four-day flings they found as a result of a faculty to faculty door-knock.
Like used car salespeople, they’d lie through their teeth as they sold their artsy souls as the cool kids in town, when most of us knew an arts degree would come to little.
Then, after the band had broken up, they’d call on their hard-working parents to clear out the storage so they could have the third bedroom back.
Only this time, it wouldn’t smell of gummy bears and puberty. It would reek of body odour and alcohol, and there’d be a trail of snacks on the floor from the kitchen to the bed.
In 2022, the game’s changed. The same statistics say one in three are moving back in after graduation.
But no longer is it laziness that’s causing the procession back to the parents’ ‘hood. It’s an older, more sophisticated breed of boomerang. With baggage.
And there’s an irony to it. As kids, we were told to save a deposit for a house. But our kids were told it was easy to buy a house.
No money down, low interest rates, a lifetime of repayments less than a rental agreement. Yet here we are, caught in a trap of inflation and rapidly rising interest rates.
So they’re selling up, and they can’t find a spare tent which means they’re again ringing our front door bell to see if it’s okay for them to stay the night.
Like a feral backpacker friend who never wants to leave, you come home to find them lying on your living room floor in front of the fake fireplace with a bowl of popcorn and Tim Tams they’d found in the pantry.
They’re watching television without ads. And they want to watch it with the lights off at a time you’re just trying to fumble your way through the dark in an effort to find the water tap so you can fill a glass and wash down your gout medicine.
A year ago you had a choice between Wimbledon, the cricket and three codes of football. All of a sudden you’re trying to guess who’s fighting off the zombies because it sure as ice wasn’t the same group you were watching the week before.
Meanwhile, Wags is under the bed in our room, hiding from the mutt they’ve brought with them and decided it’s alright to put their princely doggie bed closer to the heater than Wags would ever dream of.
Just thinking about it hurts.
Because they’re here now. In the house.
No, they haven’t moved in for good yet, but they’re doing all those things and all I want in life is the option to sit in front of my television in my Y-fronts.
Even worse, Wanda’s the one putting the popcorn through the microwave and locating the Tim Tams from the back of the fridge which is where I put them to evade unwanted guest hands slipping into the front of the packet.
Nope. Wanda, everyone must go now because they still have homes to go to.
We’ll be here when they need us, but they’ll be required to provide four weeks’ notice and references.
“Oh, Wayne,” says Wanda as I pout. “We don’t get to see them very often. And if you really want to watch the football, there’s a spare TV and a fridge in the sunroom.”
Hey Wanda, I know you’re always right. But I’m calling the locksmith first thing in the morning.
