Something of a shite platitude, but it's odd, it really is. Experiencing at 24 what most giddily tumble into at 18 is bizarre at best. And no, I don't mean sex, I mean.... *shudder* living on your own. In a sense, though, I'm glad that I flung myself so wholeheartedly into the sheer premise of it, hurling myself 150 miles south to an area I don't know to live with people I don't know, and then work another 20 miles from that. Sheesh, and I can't even cook pasta that well.
Although I'd a taste of it from travelling the USA post-graduation with my mates, living independently is an odd tang that just tastes perpetually baffling. The nature of your freedom is different: it's defined by an absence, rather than a liberating force; albeit the absence of any discernible figure to regulate your life and cook you nice things. Now, my new mother is Tesco, and I suckle hatefully on her plastic teats.
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