Yeah, that happened to me this week

I know I need to move out. I’ve been saying I need to move out for the past two years.

All I want is a flat, preferably near a bus stop or something, with a gas ring and running water. Electricity would be good, because I like watching telly.

I’m not a princess, I swear. I happily go to festivals and dry shampoo it all weekend.

I don’t really care if I’m not in the most happening area ever – I can make my own parties. And I don’t care if it’s miniscule, or a bit mouldy.

My one requirement is that I want to share with a friend or two, not randoms (see: the new series of Fresh Meat. I don’t want to be the ‘Sabine‘. Ever).

I don’t think I’m asking too much.

All in all, I’m not asking for anything flash. I don’t want to live in London’s posh South Ken or trendy Shoreditch. Literally, I just want a room. With friends.

It just hasn’t happened because I can’t afford it and London is so flipping expensive.

I’m saving and saving and it’s GOING to happen next year.

But my quarter life crisis hit me over the head again at the weekend when I came home from my own birthday party. MY BIRTHDAY. Left in tatters.

I was a bit drunk, obviously.

And my mum, bless her, had put the latch across the door. So I couldn’t get in even though I had my keys.

There was no choice but to wake up my parents. At 4am.

NOT COOL. My amazing night came grinding to a halt when I saw my poor, lovely mother’s sleepy face. While I swayed and maybe tried not to be sick into the flowerpot next to the front door.

It was very Peep Show-esque.

This is the kind of situation I was in at 18. I shouldn’t still be here now. Recession, I hate you.