It's real, I'm not joking, and it's happening to me. Help!

So. Today’s my 25th birthday.



I’ve been having a crisis for at least the last six months – but today marks the actual descent into being an adult. And I don’t like it.

Everyone’s like ‘try being 30′ or ‘try being 40′. I’m like, ‘try living at home with your parents, guys. Whilst aiming to become a successful journalist. And having a social life that involves meeting nice boys sometimes.’

Let me start by explaining that I flipping adore my mum and dad and am:

a) Completely, 100 per cent supported by them in my quest to be a writer. Something a lot of parents would have stamped out a long time ago, before sending their offspring down the Job Centre.

b) Where I want to be in my career – writing for a magazine that I think is ace. Thanks to lots and lots of help from my parents. Which I am now paying back, obviously. I’m not actually a brat. I was just MEGA skint for two years while I was interning – and I owe my dad a lot of dollar.

c) So grateful for the above that I can’t stress it enough.

But I NEED to get independent again, Destiny’s Child-style.

I’m blaming YOU, recession. I don’t think I’d be in half the turmoil I am if I had a bit more cash to splash and a bachelorette pad to match.

Turns out London is so expensive I’ve got permanently stuck at my parents’ house.

It’s taken three years since graduating for me to begin saving to move out (I’ve given myself an April deadline, but that’s being optimistic).

This didn’t happen to people 10 years ago. Ten years ago I’d be living in a cupboard above a chip shop, maybe – but it’d be MY cupboard above a chip shop.

I’m a big party girl – but I can’t really have my friends round for a house party when my amazing and lovely parents are watching Newsnight, now can I?

Ditto to bringing suitors home. Not happening right now. Cry.

I swear I’m already getting fine lines. Am I going to end up looking like Pat Butcher while I’m still living at home? (In fact, what bloody eye cream should I be using now, anyway?)

Also don’t even mention the word ‘babies’ to me. I’m broody. I don’t want to be broody, but I am.

And did I mention I’m single and living at home and on the way to 30 and and and…

Yep, I’m having a quarter life crisis. HELP!