There are very few things in life that make me feel like a grown-up.
I might be well into my twenties; gainfully employed advising my clients on their media and communications strategies (and, some of the time, trying not to throttle them); and own my own home, but – as previously documented – I spend most of my time feeling like an utter fraud.
It’s still a mystery to me that I manage to leave the house at godawful o’clock without being forcibly removed from it; turn up to places looking vaguely presentable (top tip: scarves and pashminas really come into their own if you’re prone to spillages); and that I don’t spend my entire salary on white mice at the end of the month.
I have deadlines and bills and a dependent creature (although if I weren’t around I imagine he’d be able to take care of himself by simply eating all other neighbourhood creatures); a study containing files marked things like “tax forms” and “insurance documents”; and a penchant for Radio 4. None of it makes me feel anything other than a teenager masquerading as someone who’s soon to be found out.
But it appears there is one thing that will make you feel infallibly grown up.
(And before anyone gets the wrong end of the stick and fears I’ve gone too far with the unflattering-verging-on-libellous descriptions of bad dates, thankfully I’m not the one on the receiving end.)
Much as it would, I’m sure, make me feel better to get the whole thing off my chest by committing the current saga in gory detail to the pages of the interweb, I’m not sure that it’s a terribly good idea. Suffice it to say that the owners of the property next to Blonde Towers have decided to put up an extension – about which I am not thrilled.
There are all sorts of words and phrases being bandied around, most of which sound thoroughly terrifying and utterly adult (and not in a good way). Thankfully, a Best Mate in the legal profession is not a thing – nor a person – to be sniffed at, and her translations of badly written legislation have been invaluable (an aside: oh, how I would love to go through the entire back catalogue of Acts ever written, and convert them into understandable English).
But having one’s day punctuated by solicitors and surveyors and legislation and land registry do elicit the feeling that maybe, just maybe, one has wandered (somewhat depressingly) into a world where things aren’t simple; where there isn’t an endless supply of white mice; and where things are – for want of a better phrase – grown-up.
Of course, the notion of taking legal action is an utterly terrifying one – at any age, I imagine – and one liable to leave neighbourly relations rather less amicable than had previously been the case. So I did what any self-respecting twenty-something would do in the same situation: I called my dad and delegated the entire project to him.
Well, there’s no point in rushing into this adult malarkey, is there?