When I was born, my father decided parenting wasnt really his thing and scarpered. Mum brought me up on her own, in the loosest sense of the word up. Looking back, lets just say she wasnt exactly a candidate for Parent of the Year. For as long as I can remember, she was either out of her head, missing in action for days, or hosting her collection of friendsa rather colourful lotin our lounge.
It wasnt until I was about ten that I cottoned on to the fact that not every child in our sleepy little village lived like this. For a while, I genuinely thought everyones mum had a revolving door policy and a fondness for cheap lager.
By the time I hit secondary school, I started working odd jobs. I mean, you have to eat, dont you? There was always some work going handy at the local shops or farmspaid in a few quid or, when things were dire, the odd sandwich or packet of crisps.
After I left school, landing a proper job proved difficult for someone like me: broke, no connections, and certainly no hand-me-down inheritance. So, I did what I could, a bit like Mum reallyjust attempting to scrape by. Never did figure out how she always had a fiver for herself, but the pennies I brought in went straight on bread and beans. Seemed she liked things just the way they were, and didnt have much intention to change.
About three years ago, a man started cropping up around our place a lot more. He looked a bit down at heel, but abstained from the full drunken poet aesthetic. Generally decent to me, though most days, he acted as if I was another piece of old furniture. Eventually, I hoped maybe hed turn Mums head, that theyd settle somewhere else, and Id finally get to trade in my tragic sitcom life.
To my amazement, hope became reality. A few months of him popping by nightly, then he moved in. Not that I ever felt unwelcome, but he managed the impressive feat of pretending I was invisible. I didnt mindno drama was an upgrade in our house. But life, as it does, served up its classic plot twist.
About six months after we all became home-mates, I trudged in after a long day, pockets jingling with my hard-earned coins. I thought maybe Id chip in, cheer Mum up a bitit had been all doom and gloom with her, more so than usual. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, she shouted from the hallway that I wasnt welcome anymore, pack my bags and go. At first, I was gobsmacked. I hadnt done anything, at least not that warranted banishment.
But arguing with her while she was in one of her moods was pointless. So I crashed at a mates, assuming shed cool off, as she often did, and let me back in. Nope. Next day, out I went again. Turns out, new boyfriend never liked meand with a bit of nudging, convinced Mum to give me the boot. And she listened.
So there I was, aged twenty-one, unexpectedly homeless. Thankfully, my friends were brilliant. They took me in, made their couch my new castle, and didnt let me starve. Still working whatever jobs I could pick upnothing glamorous, but it keeps the lights on.
So, when I come across people moaning about youngsters not respecting their parents, I cant help but laugh. Some of us, you see, have plenty of reasons to keep our distance.
