In January, I found myself driving down the M3 with a car full of my possessions and my cat, en route to my mum’s house in Dorset — the county where I was born and bred. This wasn’t just a flying visit on my way to somewhere fabulous; this was me, 48, single, childless, moving back in with my mum; not into my childhood home, but the house my parents bought when I was in my late twenties, shortly before my dad passed away. It was not, it’s safe to say, what I envisioned for myself in my late forties.
I cried for most of the journey, but told myself that I would be back to my London life and London flat soon enough. This was only temporary. It certainly wasn’t what my mum had pictured either.
Within minutes of me arriving we were bickering, within an hour she’d reminded me not to leave lights on when I wasn’t in the room. As for Johnny Depp (my cat) he was not to bring in any dead animals, so the door between her part of the house and mine would remain closed at all times. Wasn’t she supposed to be joyous that her daughter was coming home? I might not have been entirely honest with her about the length of my stay, but surely the longer the better? No? Oh.
My Mum’s anxieties mirrored my own. “But what is your actual plan, darling? When is the money coming?” It turns out that telling your mother that your ‘plan’ consists of nothing more than blind faith and an unwavering belief in yourself, isn’t a convincing enough answer. I think she thought I was ma.