Warning – article has a high sopp-factor.
My name is Bethan; I am 24 years and 9 months old, I have a well-respected job, and until 3 weeks ago, I lived with my parents. This situation is not unusual amongst many people my age; out of uni and starting off in their careers, working long hours and earning salaries that aren’t in line with the soaring property prices in London.
I have been lucky enough to move into beautiful and reasonably priced flat with my partner. For both of us, it is the first time we have lived with a significant other so we are diving together into the unknown waters of cohabiting. So far the experience has been amazing; thrilling, funny, exciting and eye opening. I have found myself coming out with sentences I never imagined I would utter, for example: “dinner’s nearly ready, can you please lay the table? Hold on….are you actually looking at the top 100 hottest girls on Instagram?!” – the height of domestic bliss.
Whilst getting to know my partner a lot better, I have found that by living so closely with someone else, I have learnt a lot more about myself. First and foremost, I am no Martha Stewart. As well as never having carried out hundreds of thousands of dollars of dodgy stock market dealings, I have come to the realisation that I am not a domestic goddess. I am untidy, I put off laundry until the last possible moment and I am eternally grateful for our dishwasher (until it needs unloading). My best friend has clearly been aware of this fact for a long time, as she wished my boyfriend luck cleaning up after hurricane Bethan in a card wishing us well in our new home.
I like to think that my cooking and baking skills are a redeeming factor in this situation, however much to my dismay, my first baking attempts went entirely pear-shaped last week when I forgot to include eggs in a cake mix. I think we’ll just stick to buying Gü puds for now to avoid any more hilariously awful chocolate slop.
I foresee a safe retirement plan in investing in Ikea shares. We very happily spent a small fortune in Ikea kitting out the flat. Luckily my boyfriend is slightly more pragmatic than I am, so we did manage to get all the storage and furniture that we needed, as well as my helpful contributions of fun colourful straws and pretty fairy lights.
I have also most definitely inherited my Mother’s hoarding gene and inability to let anything go. When attempting to pack up my overflowing wardrobe and catching myself saying ‘oh I got this top when I was 14,’ I realised that, unfortunately, I do not posses a savvy fashion sixth sense. I will not save myself a fortune when my teenage fashion purchases come back into fashion because that will most certainly be… never. I lack the ability to throw away old tat that I never use. There is no logic here; it is a highly irrational attachment to strange clothes and bric-a-brac. Help me.
Finally, through the late nights and long days packing, unpacking, flat pack furniture buying and assembling, multiple traffic jams and long till queues, I have learnt how lucky I am to be sharing this adventure with a wonderful man who seems to have the patience of a saint and is willing to humour my un-domestic goddess-ness and stomach my baking disasters without wincing. When I was struggling to dispose of old, crap dismantled fairy light flowers, without a hint of even a raised eyebrow, he instead suggested that of course they should not be thrown away and offered to fashion them into a decoration for our new shelves. What a dreamboat – I think he’s a keeper.